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"Promise?" I asked, sarcastically.
"Smart ass," he mumbled. Brandon tipped his chin to the house. “You know, your dad didn’t ask you to do this,” he pointed out. “And I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed if he found out.”
“Well then, we won’t tell him now will we?”
“I thought part of your NA thing was no lies.”
“It’s not like I’m telling him I’m taking his car for a ride to the mall when in reality I'm planning to trade it to a chop-shop for a day’s worth of dope. It's not like I'm even lying; I’m simply omitting the truth for his benefit, not to his detriment.”
"Whatever lets you sleep at night," Brandon said, rolling his eyes dramatically. He pushed the sleeves of his button-down shirt up his forearms arms. “Be sure to run it by your sponsor, Andrea. I think she'll have something to say about the logic you've concocted on that one."
“You leave Edna out of this,” I jokingly warned, wagging my finger at him.
I shielded my eyes from the sun as I turned from Brandon to look up lovingly up at someone else I love. Someone much older, showing a lot more wear-and-tear.
Mirna’s house.
And because Preppy stuck to his word, MY house.
My heart skipped a beat like I was on a first date. Immediately, I spotted the lines on the front porch post where my grandfather used to mark my height as a kid, and the crooked light on the side of the house that became that way when I was testing out an archery set my grandma had gotten me for my birthday one year. I even loved the way all the trees in the front of the house leaned to the left, the result of a hurricane that hit the summer I was nine. My old friend was in need of some repair, having sat neglected for a few years, but she was still beautiful to me. She always would be.
Even if she won’t be mine for much longer.
The step on the porch, the one I'd fixed before, was warped again. This time it was the other side curving upwards in a wing-like position as if it was about to take flight. The roof had lost a lot of shingles, leaving blotchy patches of faded tar paper peeking out from underneath.
The entire house was like another character in the story of my life.
An important one.
All through rehab, getting my GED, going to the local community college, I’d always had this idea. A plan to move to Logan’s Beach permanently after I graduated. I’d fix up the house and make it a place I could be proud of in a town that I could never quite shake.
For better or worse, Logan’s Beach was a part of me.
A place where my life almost ended, and where it almost just began.
However, if I’d learned anything about life post-rehab, it’s that plans change, and you must learn to adapt. First order of adjusting: Sell the house to help dad.
“You’ve always talked about how much you love this place,” Brandon said with his nose wrinkled as he looked it over, like he couldn’t understand the appeal in a shaggy old cottage on a forgotten road in the middle of a little town with two street lights and three stop signs.
“I do love this place,” I argued. “But I love my dad more. Selling it is the least I can do for him.”
“Dre, it’s not your fault that his business isn’t doing great,” Brandon pointed out. “He owns a bookstore when the world has shifted to buying books online through Bookazon dot com.”
“I know, but it IS my fault he took out a second mortgage to send me to rehab and a personal loan to send me to school. He brought Mirna up to live by us in a facility that cost a lot more and took on all of her expenses because I wanted to be close to her in her final days. It’s because of me that he’s swimming in debt. I may not be the reason his business is failing, but I AM the reason he’s losing his house,” I said choking up when I thought about all the pain my addiction and my lies and my lack of giving a shit had caused him through the years.
Brandon raised an eyebrow at me and tucked his thumbs into his belt. He glanced at the house then back to me. Looking confused and out of place. Sweat stains formed around the collar of his white dress shirt, the material too thick for the wet heat of Southern Florida. The humidity caused his usually tame dark hair to jut out from his head at every available angle. His overly tanned skin stood out against his crisp white dress shirt which he pulled from the waistband of his pants, fanning it up and down to trap air underneath. If I watched him much longer, I was pretty sure he was going to melt right there on the driveway.
I walked over to the porch and tested the first warped step with my sneaker, and it disintegrated into crumbles under the tiniest bit of pressure.
“My dad needs my help. He just WON’T ask for it. You know how stubborn he is; you used to work for him. Besides, he still sees me as a kid, as an addict, he doesn’t want to put any pressure on me.” I tested two more steps which held up slightly better than the one that turned to wood dust. “I think he’s afraid of pushing me over the edge again.” I hopped down the steps and walked over to the garage. I ran my hand over the single bay garage door, leaving a streak in the dust coating it. Remembering all the things my grandfather taught me inside that garage. Painting, welding, drilling.
“Your dad loves you,” Brandon said as I joined him back on the porch. He followed my lead carefully up the steps, only placing his foot where mine had just proved we wouldn’t go crashing down into the crawl space underneath.
“I know. And I love my dad. That’s why I’m doing this. And if it wasn’t for the past due notices I found shoved into a drawer in his kitchen and the lawsuit from the mortgage company in his desk, I still wouldn’t know he was losing his house.”
“But still. This house is special to you. You look like you’re going to make out with it for fuck's sake,” Brandon said with a laugh.
“I don’t know about the making out part,” I said, returning his smile. “But it is special to me. It always will be,” I admitted, “But if I’d known earlier what dad was going through I would have sold it a lot sooner. He should never have...”
“Stop, Dre. You needed rehab. You needed to get your ass in school. Your dad did the right thing by you. He didn’t tell you because he doesn't want you to worry. I thought you were done blaming yourself? Isn’t that another one of your NA things?” Brandon tugged me into his side and gave me a quick kiss on the head before releasing me. Brandon and I didn’t have any secrets. He knew all my dark and dirty, and I knew all of his, although cheating on a test in sixth grade is about as dark and dirty as Brandon had ever gotten.
“Thanks, Squeaky,” I said, using my nickname for him. It stood for squeaky clean. “I’m always working on it.”
I took my time opening the front door, remembering the way Mirna always used to be on the other side of it to greet me with a smile and her famous cookies. It felt wrong that she wasn’t around. In the house, or in the world.
Mirna died six months earlier.
“Well, if you are adamant about this sale then I insist on helping you fix this place up,” Brandon said, smoothing his brown hair back with both hands. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing more sweat soaking the white tank top underneath. “What do you need me to do?”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You? Help? What do you know about fixing up a house?”
“Not a damn thing,” he admitted with a laugh, his dark gray eyes lighting up with amusement. His big smile showed off more bright white teeth than should be able to fit in one mouth. “But you know about all this stuff, and you can teach me. I’m a quick learner. Besides, what did you think I came all the way down here for?”
“Because my dad asked you to babysit me,” I answered honestly.
“No, for moral support and handyman services,” Brandon said. I tried to contain my laugh. The last thing handy I saw Brandon attempt was when he hung a picture. Within three minutes it fell off the wall.
I rehung it.
The house was going to need a lot of work to bring it up to sellable condition but time wasn’t on my side. I could use any hand offered and
right then, Brandon was the only hand offering. “Alright, Brandon, let’s go then. I’m Tim the Tool-Man, and you’re Al.”
“Why do I have to be Al?” Brandon whined. “He wears plaid.”
“More facial hair,” I joked, but my smile quickly fell the second I entered the living room and a powerful sense of deja-vu I’d ever experienced slammed into me. Then the memories came back to me one by one like I was experiencing them all over again. Sitting in the living room trying to con my grandmother, running from a spray of Preppy's bullets into the woods, meditating with Mirna in the backyard, and sleeping with Preppy's body wrapped around mine in my little bed.
Chills danced up my spine.
Just as I got to the kitchen and another round of memories took shape in my mind a throat cleared from behind us. I jumped around to find Ray standing in the doorway. Her long blonde hair was stick-straight, the breeze blowing through the porch made it so she had to keep tucking the wayward strands behind her ears. She wore a simple white tank top and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. A baby, no more than six months old, bounced on Ray's hip, dressed in all pink. The little one shared the same bright blue eyes as Ray.
