Scott’s head peeked over the door; his eyes narrowed as he assessed my level of seriousness. I grinned and nodded my certainty at how disgusting it could get, then cocked my head toward the disposable hazmat suit I’d bought as a precaution.
“I ain’t scared of nothin’,” he declared boldly and bravely, and swung the single door open wide so I might better see the contents. As if on a death wish, he reached an arm boldly inside, swiping all the old, rotting groceries off the top shelf into the trash bag in his hand. “Your dad’s gross,” he added. A second swipe resulted in even more clanking and crashing.
“How did your father manage to buy two houses?” Scott grumbled; his head stuck inside the box.
“I don’t know, but we’re nearly finished with the kitchen.” I told the lie I’d been using all week to convince myself to continue going. It was losing some of its motivational power. However, this time, we were in fact closer to the end. “You don’t have to stay. You’ve done more than enough.”
“I got four days before I go home. Lauren’s havin’ a baby shower this weekend. I’m not goin’ anywhere around there, or I’ll get roped into being a part of that female fest. You’re stuck with me until Monday morning. Quit trying to toss me out.”
“It’s weird you’re havin’ a baby.” A massive understatement but still true. More than that, Scott was genuinely excited about being a dad. Throughout all the years of our friendship, close to twenty now, neither of us wanted to have children.
“Yeah,” Scott replied, using his index finger and thumb to carefully remove each bottle of condiments to drop into the trash with a louder clank. “With Lauren. She was supposed to be your girlfriend.”
Hmm. I considered the different angles such a statement might mean—none were good—and lifted to visually gauge where Scott was headed. He winked at me.
Okay, another puzzle. Who knew what the wink meant, but I didn’t pursue it either.
“She was never gonna be my girlfriend,” I said, leaving it there as I surveyed my work on the kitchen floor. The only area remaining to be cleaned was where the refrigerator stood and the dirty section of tile surrounding it.
“Why’s that?” Scott prodded.
Well hell. I furrowed my brow at the question I didn’t want to answer. My instincts had me tumbling backward into my old self and clamping my lips shut. The bucket of water I used to scrub the floor was a good enough distraction, allowing me time to figure out a reasonable response. I rolled to my feet, grabbed the bucket’s metal handle with my fist and headed for the backyard.
Frustratingly, Scott followed me out with the trash bag in hand. How did he not know I was in the middle of a crisis and needed time? And would he now press the issue for an answer?
He trotted down the few concrete steps to the ground, right on my tail. Fuck, warmth spread from my neck to my face even inthe chilly weather. Anxiety built swiftly making me feel preyed upon, and unusually vulnerable. I regretted saying anything about Lauren. My defenses lowered too soon with Scott. Luckily, I went one way to toss the dirty water into the overgrown yard. Scott headed in the other direction toward the trash bins.
The precious seconds of alone time allowed me to pull forward my tried-and-true coping mechanism. A practiced tunnel vision to shut out the rest of the world, leaving only the work on this house, and what was going to happen to my mom as my sole focus. The manic thoughts calmed instantly.
As it turned out, my crappy father passed away without updating his will. The only one in place was the one my mother had convinced him to make years ago. I inherited half of his estate that consisted of two properties, investments, and a lot of money he’d saved. The other half went to my mother. Over the last few weeks, I’d developed another new coping mechanism: Enjoying the fact that my shitty old man was rolling in his grave, fist-fighting angry for leaving such a glaring oversight undone.
His personal checking account held enough money to pay for simple repairs to his two homes. I’d hired a professional lawn care company to come on Monday. I also purchased several large buckets of indoor paint and other supplies. My mom planned to join us Saturday morning to help tackle the enormous job of getting this house together to list next week.
I made a mental list of tasks that still needed attention before the ‘for-sale’ sign hit the yard: Paint the walls, deep clean the carpets, and move the beater furniture to the curb to be picked up.
“So, you really gave up football?” Scott startled the shit out of me. I spun around, bowed up, my fist drawn. Too many years of psychological abuse had me unappreciative of being caught off guard.
Scott lifted both hands in surrender. “Whoa, buddy, it’s just me.”
There was no way Scott missed the fear that accompanied my wild reaction. I quickly glanced away, pretending to be fascinated with the water faucet on the outside brick wall. The constant drip left the ground underneath muddy and mucky. I carefully turned the rusty knob and let the bucket begin to fill without splashing back at me. Yep, I was a professional bucket filler, and quite possibly losing whatever was left of my mind. “I dropped out of college too.”
“I’m comin’ closer,” Scott announced as his work-boot clad feet came into view.
He didn’t push me for more of an explanation about quitting football, a yes would have sufficed, but I gave it anyway. “I don’t wanna play anymore. Haven’t for a long time. And Samford’s expensive, I can’t afford to be there if I’m not on scholarship.”
“Huh,” Scott said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fired off while twisting the squeaky knob. With more attitude than necessary, I gripped the handle of the bucket, sloshing water out as I went for the house.
“I wanna know what happened years ago to bring you back to Alabama,” Scott said, again right on my ass. Someone had to teach him about personal space. He needed to back the fuck up and stop all the probing. I’d say whatever I wanted to say. At the base of the steps, I turned toward him, my brows dropping as my stare snapped to his. Why dredge up the past? What did it matter? I’d made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t willing to discuss this topic. I was on the defense now, a comfortable place to be.
“Don’t give me that look. I ain’t scared of you. You’re like a brother to me. And I have a theory about what happened.”
“What’s that, Einstein?” I shot off sharply then promptly headed back inside, intending to ignore the answer. No doubtchatty back there would follow. My only hope was the slow steady thumping in my chest that sounded like a jackhammer to me, not him.
“I’d rather you tell me,” Scott said quietly. I remained silent and began to disinfect the refrigerator, spraying more Clorox over the surfaces than was probably necessary. Of course, the dog with the bone over there wasn’t going to let anything go. First, came the scrape of a kitchen chair dragged across the floor. Second, Scott took the seat in the loudest way possible, going so far as to let out a grunt.
“My guess? I figure you’re into the wood.” Clearly Scott meant to ease into the conversation with humor, but I wasn’t there with him.
