Probably that should start with the feelings churning like a fucking tornado through my insides.
Anger, yeah, that’s not a surprise. It’s the easiest emotion to grab on to, the easiest to hold tight, the easiest to conjure up.
Anger that what Harper said was true.
Anger that I created this disaster.
Anger that I’m so fucking weak.
Because I can’t let go of the past.
Except…can’t I?
I sigh, scrub my hands over my face, and keep walking, that question tied up with the shit underneath the rage—the hurt, the fear, the sense of hopelessness.
I know how this ends.
I’ve lived it.
Angry, hateful father who storms off and licks his wounds.
Rage-filled, also hateful mother who has a convenient target for her anger.
I don’t want that to be my future, to be Harper’s future, and I definitely don’t want it to be my baby’s future.
“So, suck it up and do something about it then, Richardson,” I mutter.
Except do what exactly?
Harper and I seem to either be fucking or fighting. And our “friendship” lasted all of one evening.
Sighing again, I decide to keep walking until I’m no longer as frustrated. I’m well past Harper’s kitchen, striding down the sidewalk of the small downtown area before my temper has cooled enough for me to even be aware of my surroundings. The building Harper’s kitchen is in is on one end of the street. It’s older than the others, in need of a paint job. But as I move onto the next block, the buildings get cleaner and newer and dare I say, cuter. The flower shop is cheerful, its windows full of brightly colored blooms. Molly’s Bakery pumps out a delicious scent, making my stomach rumble…
And reminding me of Harper’s affinity for apple turnovers.
I almost go inside, almost buy her as many as they have left.
But I force myself to keep walking.
Because my brain is a fucking mess…and because she’d likely launch anything that I bought her right at my head.
So, I keep walking.
I pass several restaurants that are closed, a hair salon and a nail place and a med spa. My stomach rumbles at the cheese store and doesn’t stop when I cross the street to circle back to my car and walk by the butcher.
There’s a boba shop and a coffee stand, a toy store and clothing boutique.
The trinket shop’s windows are full of shirts and magnets with funny sayings and my brain unhazes enough to spot the Grizzlies gear in the store next door.
But even though my anger’s calmed, I still don’t have any answers by the time I complete my loop and make it back to the parking lot of Harper’s kitchen.
And once I see what’s happening in the corner opposite my car, my anger comes raging back.
“What the actual fuck?” I growl as I watch Harper struggle to lift a heavy black trash bag into the dumpster.
She misses and it drops to the ground, the top opening and its contents strewing everywhere.
“Dammit,” she’s muttering as I approach, grabbing the spilled trash and shoving it inside.
