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“Maybe to you.”
He watched her for a moment as if he had more to say, but decided he was best to leave, which was wise.
Mama wasn’t kidding about the shotgun. And if she didn’t get it, I was going to.
Grant’s eyes were trained on the ground as he tried to master himself without luck. So he met my eyes, the pain between us a palpable, living thing.
“I never …” A hard swallow, and whatever he was about to say was gone. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His voice broke, and he turned slipping out of the house behind his father.
I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep the sob locked in my chest where it was. But when he was gone, my composure went with him.
And there was nothing left but regret.
27
Business End
GRANT
That fucking bird outside my window chirped happily the next morning, rousing me from restless sleep.
Everything about the sound was wrong. There was no place for happy in the world, not after yesterday.
The sheets were damp with sweat, tangled around my legs and waist like I’d been fighting them all night. The faint scent of whiskey hung in the air, though whether it came from the sheets or me, I didn’t know. My eyes stayed shut on behalf of the headache thumping behind them.
Yesterday’s horror crept back in like noxious fog. A morning that had started off with hope and promise had gone dark the second my father walked through the door. He’d stood there in the Blum’s kitchen like the grim reaper while I condemned myself along with him, and though I was certain he was just as satisfied that I’d lost the thing I’d wanted, nothing could top the feeling of his nose crunching against my knuckles.
I flexed that aching fist at the memory, wishing I’d hit him again before he got in his car and drove away with the parting words, I hope she was worth it.
Snide as he was, he wouldn’t have believed that she was.
Jo wouldn’t return my calls or my texts, and knowing she needed space, I gave it to her. I ran for hours, making it home soaked and spent without having outrun any of my pain. Showered, unable to wash the stink of regret off me. And then I dusted off one of the full bottles of bourbon in Salma’s kitchen and drank until I was asleep.
But all I’d managed to do was kill time.
I sighed—the smell was definitely me—scrubbing a hand over my face. My father left town, that I was sure of. My job was lost, which I should have been upset about. My life as I knew it was gone. I could try to find another job, sure. But I didn’t know if I wanted it.
I didn’t want to be that man anymore. I wanted to be this man. I wanted to be Jo’s man.
All these years I’d worked under my father were for him, I’d realized. Not for me. When I took his approval out of the equation, nothing was keeping me there.
The knowledge made me feel hollow, empty. Had I ever had purpose? Had I ever wanted anything so desperately, so passionately, that my future was written out for me? That there was only one path to take?
I couldn’t even answer myself. It hurt too much.
A gentle knock on the door forced my eyes open, but only to slits. I rose to sit, swinging my legs off the bed. My head dropped to my hands, the heels of my palms in my eye sockets where they patiently pressed until the room quit spinning. With a deep breath, I stood, snagging a pair of sleep pants and pulling them on.
When I opened the front door, Salma was hinged over, setting a pie on the welcome mat. She looked up, surprised.
“Well, there you are. Just made two strawberry pies, and if I eat them both, I’ll have indigestion until I’m dead.”
I pushed open the screen door, holding it so she could enter. When she passed, she glanced up at me. “Bad night? You smell like Jack Daniel’s business end.”
A chuckle. Good to know I can still laugh. “I figured you’d have heard by now.”
She shuffled her way into the kitchen and set the pie on the table. “About your daddy and Dottie? Or about you and Jo?” She gave me a look before making her way to the coffee pot. When I made to head her off, she waved her hand. “You’re in no condition to do anything but sit in that chair and tell me what happened, if you want to talk about it.”
Arguing wouldn’t do me any good, so I sat while she made coffee, staring into the whipped cream peaks of the pie.
“I fucked up, Salma.”
“I’ll say,” she teased gently.
“You … you have to understand, I’ve been groomed for this job, built for this purpose—for coming to towns just like these and convincing people to give me what I want. And this time, it was the Blum’s shale over everything else. Jo was the only way in.”
