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“What exactly am I doing to you? Besides making you come on my hand?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve been stringing me along since I was fourteen fucking years old.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I seethe. Does she think I do this on purpose? That I like feeling this way? I want to hate her. I do hate her. But I also just want her. This is her fault. If it weren’t for her, none of the past three years would’ve happened.
“No, Asher, I think I do. You don’t want me until someone else does. But we’re just friends, right? At least, we were. Now, we’re not even that.”
“Because you’re so innocent,” I snap back. “Little Briar fucking Vale. Such a saint. Such a victim. That’s what you want people to think, isn’t it? But they don’t know you like I do. I see you.”
Briar huffs, avoiding eye contact while clumsily slapping around for the handle.
“I was trying to protect you,” I say grudgingly. “Jackson isn’t a good guy.”
“You’re miserable. And you won’t be happy until everyone is just as miserable as you. I’m done.”
“Why don’t you ask him about his list then?” I toss back, ignoring the fact there is some truth to her words.
She gives me an appraising look, probably trying to gauge whether or not I’m telling the truth before she storms out of the truck and slams the door. Her pale hair whipping around in the dark behind her is the last thing I see before I drive off. I can’t be here right now, so I go to the one place I’ve been avoiding since I got into town.
Home.
I stand in front of the house I grew up in with its flaking, once-white paint, and front yard full of dirt for the second time since coming back. The first time, I took exactly one step inside before bailing.
The olive-green Oldsmobile sits in the cracked driveway, and nothing seems to have changed since I’ve been gone, except the boarded-up front window. The mailbox is knocked over, almost completely horizontal. I kick it when I walk past, inadvertently causing it to stand almost straight.
Don’t say I never did anything for you, you piece of shit.
Once I’m at the front door, I smell the old familiar scent of mothballs that my dad insists keeps stray c
ats away. I raise a fist to knock before deciding to let myself in. Inside, it’s dark, hot, and smells of stale cigarettes. Years of smoking in the house have resulted in nicotine-stained walls, but I can still see faint white patches where pictures used to hang.
And then I see him. John Kelley, in all his glory. Passed out in his black, cracked leather recliner, in front of an old television with a rabbit-ear antenna. A cigarette dangles from his fingertips with ash a mile long, and below it sits a collection of beer bottles.
“You got somethin’ to say, boy, or are you just gonna stand there and keep killing me in your mind?”
Okay, so maybe he isn’t asleep.
Wordlessly, I scan his face, noticing his yellow complexion and clammy skin. I didn’t know how I’d feel standing in this house, facing this man who couldn’t seem to put his bullshit aside for one goddamn minute to be a decent father. Even a decent human would’ve sufficed. But, the bitterness, resentment, and flat-out disgust are all still there.
“Well, no need,” he says with a cough. “My liver will kill me before you get the balls.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” I ask, the picture of apathy as I casually sit on the filthy couch. It’s the same one that was old, even when I was a baby, with its plaid design made up of different shades of tans and browns and wooden arms.
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “No, I guess you wouldn’t have any reason to, would you?”
“If you think that we’re going to be buddy-buddy just because you’re dying, think again.”
“Then, why are you here?” he rasps, taking a drag of his cigarette.
I look him dead in the eyes. “To bury you.”
He nods once, before looking back at the TV. “Fair enough.”
Minutes pass, him not knowing what to say, and me not wanting to say anything at all. Finally, he breaks the silence.
“I never meant for you to meet David.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
