Page 82 of Really Truly Yours
The microwave clock snags my attention. Two hours until takeoff. It will be tough, but I think I can make it. If not, I’ll drive down.
Grabbing the walker, Donny clinks along behind as I move toward the door.
I turn. “What are you doing?”
His eyes draw a bead on me. “You gonna talk to your brother any time soon? You don’t and I will.”
The old man needs to chill, father or not.
Snapping my mouth closed, I stifle my impulses. I’m not a hard man, so what is it about Donny that brings out my difficult side, the one that otherwise rarely sees the light of day? Ask anyone who knows me, even my family. I’m the easygoing one of the bunch and the life of the party at holiday gatherings.
The guy staring a challenge through me is a sick, old-before-his-time owner of a squandered life who understands time is his enemy. The silvery scruff on his cheeks covers hard creases and sharp lines that tell a story of a life poorly lived. Lord, I pray I never…
This time the sigh makes it out. I’ve had forgiveness preached at me my whole life, and I take the command at face value. Surely I can bestow the gift on the sad—I mean it, really sad—creature hounding me about one of the few things he holds dear in what life he has left.
Pain squeezes my airways. “When I get back. Saturday.”
“Promise?” His chin quivers away.
“Promise.” And Lord, help us all when Tripp finally knows.
It’s a hugging kind of moment. I manage a pat on the back. Unconditioned forgiveness?
I’m close, but I’m not there yet.
Chapter 17
Sydnee
They say writing is cathartic.
I find that the times I most need release words fail me.
Across the street, Donny’s house radiates loneliness, like the less-than child on the playground, the one even the rest of the misfits don’t bother with.
The roof will be fixed, and probably more than that. I only pray he makes it back to enjoy the home improvements, at least for a season.
Refusing to allow my eyes to be anything short of desert dry, I set my laptop aside and pace to the bedroom, my gaze instantly captured by the shotgun I bought a couple years ago. Grayson noticed and made a joke of it.
Typical man. He would never understand.
Honestly, if push came to shove, I would have trouble using the thing, but its presence makes me feel stronger, even if I know the truth. One of Sam’s high school buddies lives down a rural country lane, and Sam took me there once to teach me to shoot.
A bad guy wouldn’t necessarily know I was a lousy shot, now would he?
Grayson needs to get his handsome self out of my head.
Does he shower off the contamination after a visit? Now that I’ve seen his brother’s house, my mind easily enough conjures the kind of high-rent district where a pro-ball player lives.
You’ve shared whispers at midnight.
Uh-uh. His charm’s got no business in my mind or anywhere else near East Fifth Street. His type is like a bigfoot sighting around these parts. Hard to believe, and, like the legendary creature, doesn’t stick around.
Back to the living room I go. I drop onto the sofa and close out the document I’m not writing. It’s a waste of time anyhow. I burrow my fingertip into a familiar hole on the armrest. The fabric, worn and thinned from decades of use, is slowly giving up.
Maybe I can pick up some work. Donny’s troubles this week cost me hours. He’s worth it.
Grayson, however, is not allowed to disrupt my order, not even in my mind. Oh, I can’t wait for life to return to normal. I’m happy, even if my world isn’t overly interesting. Content, at least.