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I’ve been working out for over an hour, but the endorphin hit that usually helps clear my head is failing me today. I can’t stop thinking about Carlee.
I’d planned to speak with her at the Christmas Tree Farm. It’s the only reason I dragged my ass back to Rose Hill yesterday. I’d wanted to clear the air. The past couple of weeks of barely making eye contact with each other sucked. I didn’t think it would. I’d convinced myself that keeping my distance would be for the best, and I thought it wouldn’t be hard. After all, Carlee and I hadn’t spoken for a decade.
But it was hard.
Sofuckinghard.
I felt like the kid I once was… the one who went out of his way to not face the consequences of his actions and avoided themost beautiful girl in the world because he wasn’t good enough for her.
But after the last meeting with Carlee and Avery, where the former only spoke to me through the latter, earning me a raised brow from the PR agent, I realized I didn’t want to avoid Carlee. Not just because it made working together difficult, but because after ten years of deprivation, I can admit I don’t want to continue on that path.
Carlee Jones shines a light on my darkest days. Aside from Carter, there’s no one else on this planet who knows me better. Even after all these years apart.
I want her in my life in whatever capacity she’ll allow it. If only I’d realized that before I was an ass at Thanksgiving dinner…
I’d wanted to say all that and more at the farm. When Carlee finally met my gaze after more than an hour of me trying to catch her attention, I thought she might be receptive to speaking with me.
Then Augie Olsen showed up.
Watching them flirt sent my mind right back to prom and the impulsive act that caused the strain on our friendship in the first place, and my plan flew right out the window.
I bend down and execute another deadlift, but my form sucks. I feel a tug on my lower back and release the bar before I pull something. The weights clatter. “Fuck!”
Hip-hop music plays over the speakers, but all conversation ceases as the other players in the weight room look my way.
Great.
An audience is the last thing I need.
Kendrick would ask me what’s wrong if he was here, but he and his family left for Kansas this morning. So while the others are curious about my outburst, none of them will ask me about it. Not only am I a stranger, but the rumors about my behaviorhardly paint me as a friendly person. Which I’m not. But I’m not an asshole either. I want to prove the latter, but today is not the day for that. I’m not in the mood.
I slide the plates off the barbell and re-rack them. Then, I grab my towel and wipe the sweat from my face as I head to the locker room. I consider showering before I leave, but tension is building in my shoulders, telling me I’m close to snapping. The better option would be to leave so I can release my emotions behind closed doors.
I blast country music on the drive home. Not the new stuff. I prefer the older artists, like Toby Keith and Brooks and Dunn. They’re the country music of my childhood. Carter made fun of me for always wanting to listen to the country radio stations in our town, but the music soothed my tumultuous mood swings as an adolescent. There’s just something about listening to songs about life’s hardships that makes mine not seem so bad. I had an abusive father, but at least my wife didn’t cheat on me and take my dog and truck in the middle of the night. It’s all about perspective.
The music lifts my mood, but the moment I step into my penthouse, I realize I need to do something else with my day. I can’t hang out here alone and sulk. I need to be productive. Working out didn’t do the trick, but another idea comes to mind.
After a quick shower and scarfing down two turkey sandwiches, I’m driving to downtown Dallas. I hate the area with its crowds and bumper-to-bumper traffic, but where I want to go is located here, so I suck it up.
I park my vehicle in the garage across from Soup Soul. The community center began as a modest soup kitchen operating out of a church basement, but it’s grown into a considerable resource center for those in need. The non-profit provides meals, delivers groceries, assists people with finding affordable housing, puts on clothing drives each season, and so much more.Growing up in Rose Hill, I didn’t know about Soup Soul until my sophomore year. I’d been listening to the radio when I heard a commercial promoting their Suits and Skirts professional clothing event.
My high school baseball coach required all players to dress in slacks and button-downs on gamedays, and after the previous summer’s growth spurt, I no longer fit into the clothes I’d borrowed from my dad. I was officially taller than the man who reluctantly raised me.
Too embarrassed to ask the Joneses for help, and too young to have a job to earn money myself, I decided to steal my dad’s beat-up Chevy and drive into the city to see if Soup Soul could help me.
They did.
After meeting with the director of the youth program, Erika Switzer, I discovered a wealth of resources that I utilized for the rest of my high school career. The only good thing about my dad being a drunk was he never noticed when I took his car on weekend mornings to go into Dallas.
Erika and the others at Soup Soul helped me make it through those final years of adolescence with dignity. I didn’t have to wear clothes with holes or worn-down shoes, and I didn’t have to embarrass myself by asking my best friend’s parents for help.
I never forgot what Soup Soul did for me, and I donate a hefty amount of money to them each year to make sure they can provide the same resources to other kids like me. But today, I want to do more.
I tug my baseball cap over my eyes and keep my head down as I cross the street. I walk inside and lift my eyes to the welcoming desk. A teenage girl sits there, wearing a Soup Soul volunteer shirt.
She looks up when I enter and smiles politely. “Can I help you?”
Relieved she doesn’t seem to recognize me, I lift my chin and my shoulders fall. “Is Erika here?”
