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“No, man, it’s fine. I know, I know. I want to capitalize on this too, I do. I just hate that it involves me pretending to me something I’m not. But we’ll make it work. We always do.”
He taps the wall a few times, causing me to jump. I wonder for a second if he knows I’m listening to him. And if so, does he care? I move farther away from the wall and hope that he hasn’t figured it out.
“Thanks. I’ll get in touch with her tomorrow and then get back to you all. It would be great if you guys came out anyway. I think Audrey could really use some help packing and fixing up this house. Unfortunately, I’m shit at helping her with this stuff. Maybe if we’re all here pitching in, things would get done faster.”
My heart squeezes at the thought that he’s worried about all the things I have to do. I do wish he would help me, but I don’t want to push him. I know he’s here trying to get some new songs written for the album. Trying like hell to write one that’s a bigger hit than the one he sings with Serena. When I’m cleaning out a closet or working on boxing up all the memories, he’s strumming on his guitar. I know he’s working, and I don’t want to bother him, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, boxing up all this stuff and preparing the house for sale is hard enough. I don’t want someone like Derek Walsh watching me do it. There are constantly tears in my eyes as I place all of our precious memories into boxes, and the ache in my chest grows more and more each day as I consider a world that may not include my father.
“Things are going to get done, okay?” The annoyance from earlier is back in his tone. “I already agreed to sing that fucking song with her. I’m not sure what else you’d like me to do.”
More rapping on the wall next to my ear. I wonder what that’s about. Is it a nervous tic or is he mad and trying not to punch the wall? I’m betting it’s the punching-wall thing.
“It usually doesn’t. There are no distractions. I just can’t focus. But I’ll get it done. I always do,” he reminds them. “You’re just going to have to wait a little bit longer. I think maybe if you came out here, that would add in some pressure.”
He pauses. “I suggested that you come out here to help Aud.” Another pause. “Sure, yeah, just do it. And I’ll do my best to have something ready for you to lay some cords onto.” One last pause. “Yeah, we will. See you guys.”
He gets quiet now, and I hear him kick the wall. I feel bad for Derek. I know he’s under a lot of pressure. But right now, I’m hoping his kick didn’t add another task to the list of things to call the local Mr. Fix It to come take care of. I’m not handy enough to do any more than painting, and Derek isn’t either. Plus, I know he has his own stuff that he’s supposed to be doing, so I don’t want to bother him with the trivial shit.
I decide it’s best if I’m not in my room when he comes out. I’d rather be in a common area of the house so I can talk to him. He sounds like he could use a friend, and I’d like to be that friend. I grab my book from the bedside table and head out to the living room. Flopping down on the couch, I open my book and pretend to be engrossed in it until footsteps echo down the hallway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’m taking a walk down the beach,” he says as he peeks his head into the living room. He has a bottle of something with him as he storms out of the house.
“There’s no alcohol allowed on the beach,” I call after him, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I better go find your ass and remind you,” I mutter.
After finding my shoes, I follow him down the beach. He’s just walking. The bottle he took with him must be in the canvas bag he has with him. His guitar is strung over his shoulder too. I think about turning around for a second because I know if he’s writing he’ll want some privacy. But against my better judgment, I follow.
It’s not too far down the beach until it switches from public to private. We were one of the first houses that was built on this stretch of land, which is why he can access the public beach so easily. It’s just over the broken-down bridge. I watch as he expertly makes his way over. In that instant, I know where he’s headed. The first lifeguard tower is never occupied and certainly not at this time of night. We always used to come out here and play games of never have I ever with bottles of booze we were able to steal from my parents. Or that we had scored downtown from a visiting vacationer that didn’t think twice about supplying a minor.
I make my over the abandoned bridge, careful not to step on any of the exposed nails or splintery pieces of wood that are sticking up. The city hasn’t fixed it, and I’m guessing it’s because no one is claiming ownership of it. The city argues that it’s the private communities, and the community is saying it’s city property. Either way, it’s not getting fixed, and the bridge that I used to walk across and look out over the water on is in sad shape. It’s not safe to be out there. I glance over at the opening and see that someone had the good sense to put a chain and ‘stay out’ sign across the entrance. You could easily go under it to access the bridge, but at least someone is trying.
He’s making his way up the ramp, looking around as he goes. I chuckle to myself. Some things never change. It’s the same thing we did as teenagers, or even in our early twenties when we just wanted some space—slipping inside the guard shack and disappearing. It’ll be dark in there because the sun has almost set and there are no lights inside.
No swimming is allowed at night, or if you do, it’s at your own risk, so no one ever really knew we’d come here. At least that was our thought. And it worked most of the time. Sometimes a random vacationer would be out there and yell us, not realizing we were locals and knew this town better than them.
Only once did an officer chase us all out of there. Derek, Aiden, and I ran into my dad as we were running up the deck steps to our house, a fit of giggles escaping us. He only wanted to know if he was going to have an officer coming to his door. I still remember Derek looking over at him and saying, “No, sir.” Dad nodded and let us be. No officer showed up at our door, and Dad never talked about it again.
I make my way up the ramp, but there’s no sound coming from inside. He’s either still setting up or he hasn’t gotten to the writing or singing part of the evening. I pull the door open slowly and see him cloaked in darkness, leaning against the back wall.
“Aud,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Hey.” I come all the way in and take a seat on the side wall so that I have a side view of him and he of me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me.
I can’t see much in the dark shack, but I can see the bottle of alcohol between his feet.
“I thought you looked like you could use someone to talk to,” I tell him.
“Ah, I see.”
He doesn’t say anymore; instead, he goes for the bottle. He unscrews the cap and takes a swig before wincing. I guess it burns, whatever it is.
“What are you drinking?”
He says nothing and just hands me the bottle. I take it and examine it. It’s a decent bottle of whiskey. Not Jack Daniels, but the expensive shit I’m used to seeing my dad drink or order when we’re out.
“Are you gonna take a sip?” he challenges.
