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They walked out, Mrs. Nelson weeping, and Mom followed them.
Dad closed the door behind her and turned, his eyes so freaking cold.
“You had something to do with that boy’s death, didn’t you?”
“N-no, sir.” Butch couldn’t stop shaking. All he could see in his head was an image of Scott the last time Butch had seen him. The haunted look in his eyes.
I did that.Wedid that.
Except it had been Butch’s words that had pushed Scott over the edge. Why else would he have named him to his mom?
Dad narrowed his gaze. “You’re lying. I always know when you’re lying. I have no idea what you did to that poor boy—only you know the truth—but it’ll be on your conscience for the rest of your life, yours and your asshole friends.” He glared. “Christ, how old was he? Seventeen? He had his whole life ahead of him, and you robbed him of it.” He pulled a face. “You disgust me. Get out of my sight.”
Butch pushed his chair back, its feet scraping loudly over the wooden floor, and stumbled out of the room, up the stairs to the attic bedroom he shared with no one.
God, what have I done?
He threw himself face down onto his bed and cried into his pillow. His dad might piss him off on a regular basis, but Butch couldn’t deny he was speaking the absolute truth. Scott Nelson was dead, and it was his fault.
When Deke came home a couple of hours later after football practice, Butch was still holed up in their room, unwilling to step out of it. He skipped supper, and no one brought him anything, so he figured they were avoiding him as much as he was avoiding them.
When it was time for bed, Butch lay there in the dark, his mind a rabbit warren of twists and turns, all of its tunnels leading him back to one place. He waited until the house was silent, then grabbed a flashlight. He emptied his backpack onto the bed, then proceeded to fill it with as much clothing as he could. Money was going to be a problem—he only got a small allowance each month, and May’s was spent already.
That meant hitching a ride.
He crept downstairs and into the kitchen. A raid on the fridge resulted in a hunk of cheese, some cold meat, and a plastic container filled with meatloaf. He’d have to find water where he could. He cut off a few slices of bread, wrapped them in paper, and grabbed some fruit from the bowl on the sideboard. He squeezed everything into his bag and crept along the hallway to the front door. On impulse he went into the living room, opened his dad’s liquor cabinet, grabbed the almost full bottle of whiskey, and somehow found space for it in his bag. Then he headed back into the hallway and let himself out as silently as he could.
He paused at the driveway, glancing back at the only home he’d ever known.
I can’t stay there, not now.
His dad would never let him forget this.
Once the kids at school found out, he’d be a pariah.
Hell, there was still Scott’s funeral to come, and no way could he stick around for that.
Other kids leave home at eighteen, don’t they?He’d manage somehow.
The one thing he focused on was putting distance between himself and home, and if that meant walking all the way to Montana, he’d do it.
I’m never coming back.
Those bridges were burned, and a chasm had opened up between him and his family. What lay before him was an unknown road.
I’m gonna make it a better road than the one I just left.
Butch walked slowly, but it didn’t feel as though he walked alone.
Scott was with him, and Butch had an idea he’d always be there at his shoulder.
Sunday, September 25, 2022
Part of Sol had always known, but hearing his suspicions confirmed had been a harrowing experience. He kissed Butch on the forehead.
“I’m so sorry you went through all that. It must’ve been awful,” he murmured. “When we heard the news, everyone was so shocked. I looked for you at school. I don’t know who found out first, but word finally got around that you’d gone, only, no one knew any more than that. Where did you go?”
“I walked for miles that first day. I snuck into a barn and spent the night there.” Butch grimaced. “I also drank all my dad’s whiskey, until I threw up. The next morning the ranch owner found me, and I must’ve looked pretty pathetic because they gave me breakfast before they sent me on my way.” Butch sighed. “And that became the pattern for my days. I walked as far as I could, ate when I could, and after weeks of walking and begging, I came to a small farm. I had no clue where I was, but the farmer was an old guy who was struggling. His son used to do a lot of the heavy work, but he’d gone away with his friends before they all started college. He couldn’t afford to pay me, but they fed me, three meals a day, they gave me a bed, and I worked my ass off. I stayed long enough to help get the harvest in, then I left—and went back to walking.” He smiled. “I found places to work, and I did all kinds of jobs—working with horses, laboring for a house builder, painting, you name it.”
