Split(25)

“The sick her.” He pushes into the room and props a thigh on my old desk. His massive leg, dirty denim, and a sheathed hunting knife clipped to his hip are laughable against my pink desk covered in hand-painted butterflies. “Me too.”

“How do you do this, Code? How can you stand coming here to this house or even living in this town? Everything reminds me of her.”

“Easy.” He swivels and jerks his head in the direction of the living room. “I do it for him. Whatever we went through, he went through worse. He sheltered us from the worst of it. Nobody sheltered him. He held her when she lost the ability to talk but needed to scream. Talked to her when everyone else treated her like she’d already gone. We may’ve been her life, Shy, but she was his life. That’s a lot of burden for one man to carry.” He shrugs. “Can’t leave him. I’m all he has now.”

I cringe at the truth in his words as guilt ravages my gut. “He has me too.” It comes out as a defense, which only intensifies the grip on my stomach. Fact is, I ran as soon as I was old enough to do it legally. I went against everything he wanted and did what I could to save myself. It was selfish, but it was survival. I had to get away from the hurt.

Fuck, it’s been over six years since she died, and being here is still torture. But did I ever stop to consider how badly my dad was hurting? He’s the bravest, strongest, most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I figured he’d be fine. Eventually.

I lean against the desk next to Cody. “How’d you know about all that? He never talked about it.”

“We’ve had a few father–son talks over a case of beer.” He wraps an arm around me for a quick squeeze. “I don’t blame you for leaving, Shy. You act tough, but it’s just to cover up all your mushy insides.”

I tilt my head and study my brother’s dark eyes that have flecks of gold just like Mom’s did. “I’m your big sister. I left you behind when you needed me.”

His lips curve up a hint at the ends. “You might be older in years, but I’m way more mature.”

I rock into him with my shoulder and he chuckles.

“It’s good to have you back.” He stands and moves to the door but turns before passing through it. “When these newspeople call and start offering you your dream job, do us a favor this time and stay in touch.”

“I will.” I drop my chin, unable to hold my brother’s eyes as the pride and sadness in his gaze tightens my throat.

“Good. G’night.”

The old door closes with a whine that matches my own. I never really stopped to think about how badly my dad was hurting after losing Mom. So lost in a tornado of emotions, I couldn’t see beyond my own grief. But still, why stay here in this house of death when he could be living in Mom’s dream home surrounded by memories from when she was healthy and they had their entire lives ahead of them? To allow it to be lived in by a stranger, someone who has no idea what a privilege it is to be so close to the last thing that was important to her. The thought makes my muscles tense.

If anyone deserves to live in that house, it’s me. And with my open-ended stay, there’s no way I can stay in this house indefinitely.

Dog with a bone, right?

I’m getting my momma’s house back.





LUCAS


“Come on, Buddy. Aren’t you hungry?” I hold a handful of dog food on my palm.

He recedes deeper beneath the deck and growls.

“Okay. It’s okay.” I toss the kibble back into the plastic bowl and push it deep beneath the porch. “It’s yours. I won’t bug you.”

Despite my best efforts to lure him from his hiding spot, he hasn’t left since he first showed up almost a week ago. Every night I get back from the job site, I peek down to see those terrified brown eyes peering back at me. I have to assume he comes out while I’m gone, or maybe while I sleep, but when I’m here, he tucks away in his shelter.

My guess is he’s been hurt before and struggles with trust. I don’t want to push him and scare him away. It’s actually been kinda nice to have someone to take care of again.

I take a seat at my table and open my sketchbook. It’s nothing fancy, just a pad of blank drawing paper, the kind they sell to kids. Even if I had a television, I don’t like to watch. Fearing a story on the evening news or a few minutes of a crime show will trigger a blackout. I have a stack of comic books, but I’ve read them over a dozen times each, so sketching is how I pass the time.

My hands hurt from putting up drywall all day, but it’s not enough to keep them from moving over the page. With quick strokes and some gentle shading, an eye takes shape. Wide but turned up at the edge, followed by eyelashes, thick and the color of coal. The irises stay light, only a touch of blended lead to illustrate powder blue.

Shyann.

The girl has been stuck in my head since we first met. She’s at the job site at least once a day, usually to drop off coffee for the crew or to swing by and have Nash sign something important. I’ve come so close to walking up to say hi, but my nerves make it impossible, so I do the next best thing and try to ignore her. But even my best attempts can’t keep my gaze from searching her out.

Those first few days I’d catch her watching me. She’d smile and her show of friendliness would send me deeper into my work. Yesterday I caught her glaring at me, as if my refusal to acknowledge her conveyed my disinterest. Little could she possibly know she’s all I think about anymore. For someone like me, obsession can be dangerous.