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“Why don’t you come in? The trailer’s not in the best shape, but I can make you something to eat so you can sober up and get a handle on yourself before you go home.”
“Why are you always so good to everyone, even when they screw you over?” He stumbles forward a couple of steps.
“It’s a personality flaw.” I take him by the elbow and lead him into the trailer. He almost hits his head on the top of the door but manages to duck just in time. “Do you still like peanut butter and honey, or have your taste buds matured since high school?”
“I still like peanut butter and honey. You got the clover stuff?”
“Is there any other kind?” I pull the peanut butter and honey and bread out and set them on the tiny counter as Tucker slides onto the bench and folds his hands on the table.
He looks so broken and defeated, like life has beaten him down. It makes me sad to see Tucker like this, the creator of his own demise, unable to break the cycle he perpetuates. A victim of his own making.
CHAPTER 17
ECHOES
Van
Dillion should be here soon, and I have zero chill, so I head outside to check the truck and make sure I haven’t left a bunch of take-out cups on the floor. Grammy Bee couldn’t stand garbage in the truck. When I was a teenager, if I left so much as the corner of a wrapper on the floor, she’d make me scrub the whole thing by hand as punishment.
I consider, for half a second, taking the BMW instead. It’s a much smoother ride, and a nicer car, but Dillion is as impressed with material things as I am with soggy breakfast cereal. And I’d rather drive the truck anyway. It might not have the best shocks, but it fits in better here than a sports car. Also, the front seat is a bench, with no center console, which means no physical barriers.
I find an empty coffee cup in the holder on the dash, but otherwise it’s clean. I toss it in the garbage and hear the sound of Dillion’s trailer door spring shut, indicating that she’s probably on her way over. Dillion is nearly silent when she’s coming through the path, and half the time she magically appears at the edge of the property line and scares the crap out of me. But this time I catch the loud crunch of gravel and what sounds like someone dragging their feet. It’s followed by mumbling. Unless Dillion has suddenly come down with some kind of illness that causes her voice to drop two octaves, a dude just left her trailer.
I catch movement between the trees and someone heading down the driveway. And that someone happens to be Tucker the Fucker.
He doesn’t appear to be moving very quickly, so I walk to the end of my own driveway and cut him off before he can reach the end of Dillion’s. I slip one hand in my pocket, aiming for nonchalant. “Hey, Tucker.”
He startles, his attention having been on his feet. His gaze is slow to meet mine. “Oh, hey, Van.”
“What are you doing here?” I flip my keys around on my finger.
He glances back over his shoulder, like he’s not quite sure where he is. “Nothin’. I’m not doing anything.”
“That sounds like a load of bullshit, considering you came from Dillion’s trailer.” I didn’t see him leave the trailer, but I heard the door close and he’s walking away, so I’m assuming he was in there. With her. Alone. While I’m not particularly worried about Dillion’s ability to take care of herself, I also remember what he said to me about her when I first met him. “So why don’t we try that again. Why are you here?”
“It’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Tucker mutters and then takes an unsteady step to the right, trying to get around me.
“Are you drunk?” I move closer and get a whiff of whiskey and . . . peanut butter?
“Nah, man. I’m fine.”
“Really? Because you smell like you bathed in a bottle of booze. Don’t be comin’ around here messing with Dillion. Especially in this kind of condition. Get yourself together, Tucker, and figure out your shit. She’s moved on, and so should you.”
“With you?” He spits the words.
“With her life. Doesn’t this town already have enough to gossip about without you dragging Dillion into your crap too? She doesn’t need your drama; she has her own stuff to deal with.”
He sags, like an air mattress with a hole in it. “You’re right. I know that. I just thought . . . I don’t know. She was always good at forgiving.”
“She doesn’t do much forgetting, though.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to call you an Uber.”
