Page 52 of Overkill

“Like the dent on the truck?” He chuckled.

“That’s a load bearing dent, thank you very much!”

He looked me dead in the eyes, unamused but still with a twinkle in those green depths.

“I’m gonna bring my tools tomorrow and fix this deck.”

I huffed a laugh. “The only thing that’ll fix this deck is a lightning strike and a controlled burn.”

“I’m not an arsonist, but I got a sledgehammer and a tow truck that can empty right into the dump.” He shrugged at the half-fallen structure.

Greg demolishing this piece-of-shit deck with a sledgehammer—a deck Luke had made himself but had done in the dumbest way possible—felt like a favor.

Luke had not been a handy man. But he was so proud of his rural roots that he wanted us to believe he was. The deck had been built very well. It was perfectly level. So level, in fact, that water never ran off. Instead, it collected between the wood, slowly causing rot until the planks shriveled and held on for dear life.

Seven years after he’d built it, stained it, and made me compliment him for his great work, it was now a fucking danger to everyone.

“I might help you,” I whispered, wondering what it would feel like to take an axe to all of this. To break it into splinters, then put it in a pile and light it on fire.

“You’ll need to not have a TBI, and some food in your belly. Don’t argue with me.” Greg lifted a finger. “I got two of what Miriam likes so you have leftovers. Plus extra white rice and fried rice, so you can eat some of that, too. Now I’m gonna order a burger for you, me, and both of those kids, plus all the fries I can stuff into your fridge, because I know for a fact that Farm Table’s sweet potato curly fries taste divine when reheated in an air fryer.”

He reached the front door first, holding it open to let me into my own damn house.

“And I don’t want you insulting me by talking about paying me back, ya hear?” He was already dialing the next number. “I’ll be in once I’m done with the call. I don’t wanna let the bought air out.”

He shut the door behind him, staying on the porch while I was left inside. Bought air? What did that mean?

“Uhm, we don’t wear shoes inside the house,” I yelled through the door.

All I got was a grunted, “No worries,” in response.

I expected pushback. The Grays, when they deigned to visit, always stomped through even though they knew we took off our shoes at the door. After my mom mentioned it the first time, it was like they made a point of muddying their shoes, ensuring she had something to clean. Greg was not like them. Not at all.

I walked into the kitchen where Miriam set the table while Marc was on his phone, scrolling through something or other.

As I prepared myself a chamomile tea, I could almost hear Greg’s muffled voice through the wall. It didn’t sound like he was on a call about burgers and fries, but it was hard to tell, and I had a splitting headache.

Miriam reached over and poured hot water into my mug. I thanked her, rubbing my hand across her shoulders and giving them a squeeze. She was a good kid. A really good kid.

Minutes ticked by.

“So is he our new daddy?” Marc asked without looking up from his phone. “You need a fucking man to get you out of the pit we live in?”

“Marc!” I snapped. “He’s just… our neighbor.”

I had no idea what to say.

“Yeah?” Marc turned his eyes, bright with accusation, to me. “And what? You’re gonna prove everyone right about you and your mom. You need a man to keep paying your bills. He’s a bum! He’s probably only here because he’s sick of living in a barn, and since you have no friends, thinks you’re an easy target. That’s what everyone—”

My hand was up, fingers splayed. I’d crossed the space between us, and I would have slapped him. I wanted to slap him. But I couldn’t.

Because somewhere deep in his eyes was the little baby I’d held when I was eight years old. The toddler I’d played with when I was a teen. The child who’d crawled into my bed on rainy nights when the thunder roared. He’d wrap his arms around my neck, and even while he shivered, told me that he was there to keep me safe.

Somewhere in him was that kid I loved and the man he could be if I just kept my shit together. But I was far, far, from being able to keep it together.

My open palm closed into a fist and I dropped at it at my side, ashamed of myself.

“Apologize.” Greg’s even, quiet voice echoed in the kitchen.