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There’s somewhere I need to go. I drive through the familiar streets, noting all the things that have changed—and all the things that haven’t. When I get to my old neighborhood, my heart starts to thump.
According to Nora, Slim is still living in his parents’ old house, which he inherited when they passed away. Driving onto his street, I look at the overgrown lawns and rundown houses in need of a lick of paint. Or a bulldozer. Tightness squeezes my throat and chest as I pull up outside Harvey “Slim” Miller’s house.
I never thought I’d come back here. Never thought I’d face this man again—but he was harassing my sister, and that shit needs to stop.
So, stepping out of the Jeep, my leaden steps take me up the weed-infested path to the front door. Loud music thumps from within the walls of the house, with stained lace curtains hiding whatever’s happening inside.
I ring the doorbell and wait, then finally pound my fist against the door.
Pulse hammering, I stand on the stoop and listen to the heavy footsteps approach the other side of the door. For the first time since I got out, I’m going to lay my eyes on the man who put me behind bars for three years.
CHAPTER 29
Jen
All my plants survived the month, which is good, but Fallon left this morning, which is…less good.
Terrible. It’s terrible. I feel like shit.
This morning I woke up in my apartment, feeling like a stranger in my own home. I would stuff my face with leftover pie, but when I checked the barn refrigerators, they were all gone. So I can’t even pig out and eat my feelings.
Fallon is gone.
Fallon is a felon. What? Since when?
The day was spent wandering around my house, setting things right, checking my plants, and staring off into the distance wondering what the hell just happened. I also turn off my phone when my parents start incessantly calling. They told me they’d stay in town until I made a decision about Bernard, but then they ignored me when I said I’d already decided—and the answer was no.
I’m guessing the decision they’re waiting on is for me to change my mind. They’ll wait a long time.
As I cook up a couple of eggs for dinner, I stare at the pan, still reeling from Fallon’s revelation.
Replaying our interaction makes me cringe. I reacted badly. I should have gone to him, assured him that I didn’t care. But it felt like I was dealing with a wounded animal likely to lash out. Being neutral seemed like the better strategy. The more reasonable option.
God, why am I so bad at this? Did I miss the lessons in school that would’ve taught me to act like a normal, empathetic human being?
I don’t care that Fallon went to prison. I’ve known him for over three years, and I’ve gotten to know who he is now. My parents told me he went to prison from age eighteen to age twenty-one. He got out of prison twenty-five years ago!
People change. Fallon isn’t a criminal or even remotely violent in any way. I’ve seen him catch and release a huge, furry spider, for crying out loud. He nearly tamed a whole murder of murderous crows!
The smoke alarm starts blaring. I jump at the sound, splashing some oil from the pan onto the open flame of my gas stove. The whole pan goes up in flames, and I scream.
Shitshitshit what do I do?
Deep breath. Oil fire. Need to smother it.
I turn the burner off and scramble to find a lid that will fit my pan. I open the cabinet where I keep all my pots and pans neatly organized and curse when I see the jumbled mess inside. Did Nora not see the organization system I had?
Tearing drawers and cabinet doors off their hinges as the fire in the pan burns hotter, I finally remember I bought a fire blanket years ago and stuffed it in the back of my pantry. Rushing to grab it, I pull the tab and unfurl the blanket, then throw it over the incinerated eggs.
I slump down in my chair and lean my head against the wall. My lids slide shut, and the irrational desire to start sobbing wells up inside me. All I smell is smoke.
Why do I feel like crying? I’ve worked in kitchens for years. So I burned some eggs—who cares?
But a voice in my head tells me it isn’t the fire that makes me want to cry. It’s the fact that the one man who actually saw me for me is gone.
Rubbing the heels of my palms against my eyes, my mind flits to my conversation with Bernard.
Did I give him signs that I was interested?
