Waiting on the Sidelines (Waiting on the Sidelines #1)(41)

“Hey, I haven’t made up my mind yet. But don’t tell my dad that,” he winked, and we were on the road again.



We pulled up to my house at about 3 p.m. I hopped out before Reed turned the motor off hoping I could just run inside without him stopping to talk to my dad or get a good look at my house. But he was quicker than I thought. His motor was off and he was next to me walking across the gravel in no time. I heard some slight noises coming from the side carport and we headed over in that direction to see my dad digging for some tools in the small shed by the back door.

“Hey pops, I’m home,” I said as he jumped back, hitting his head on the shed door a little.

Rubbing it, he set his tools down on the shelf and grabbed the dirty towel he left out here to clean his hands off after a little ‘tinkering.’ My dad was pretty handy. He really didn’t have reasons to always be fixing things, but he seemed to search them out anyhow. He had some garden lattice propped up by the wall and was digging out some brackets and paint, probably something my mom had put him up to.

“Hey there, honey. You home already?” he said, slowing his voice a little when he realized I wasn’t alone. “Oh, hey, Reed. Nice to see you, son. What are you up to?”

“Reed gave me a lift,” I said, trying to finish the explanation before my dad went into panic, you-had-a-crash, what-happened-to-the-car mode.

“Are you ok? Did something happen?” he said, squeezing my shoulders and looking into my eyes like he was giving me some sort of concussion test. I grabbed his hands and squeezed them and then kissed his cheek.

“I’m fine, daddy. Car just broke down, that’s all,” I said, filling him with relief.

“Ohhhh, good. Well, guess we should go pick it up. Where’d you leave it,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

I stopped him. “No, no. It’s good. Buck actually stopped to help me. I was just outside of town. He towed the car to the shop and then sent Mr. QB1 here to save me,” I said, trying to play it off like it was no big deal because I know my dad was going to feel guilty accepting the help and not saving me on his own.

“Oh,” he looked down, then back up at Reed, reaching for his hand to shake it. “Well, thanks, Reed. Awful nice of ya. You’ll have to give me your father’s number, I want to make sure I thank him and find out how to pick the car up and what I owe him.”

“No problem, Mr. Lennox. Really, never any trouble. And you probably should just say thanks to my dad and leave it at that. He… well, he pretty much never accepts money when he helps a friend. He’ll be offended, sir,” Reed said, smiling.

“Oh, well…” my dad shook his head some more and then nodded, finally accepting it. This was hard for my dad, I knew. “Well, then how about we feed you some supper. That’ll sure make me feel a whole lot better. And my wife, Susan, makes an amazing roast. She’s had one going in the pot all day.”

Reed looked at me for approval, but I was more panic stricken. I didn’t really want him to see the inside of my house. Truth be told, Tatum’s name calling of Trailer Trash was still with me a little. But, since I wasn’t objecting either, Reed just shook my dad’s hand again and said, “Thanks, I’d love to stay, sir.”

“Please, just call me Rich,” my dad said, putting his arm over Reed’s shoulder and guiding him inside.

We came inside through the backdoor, and thankfully my mom’s roast had filled the house with an amazing smell. It made my house feel even more homey, and I was hoping it might just distract Reed from our scratched cabinets, old countertops, worn carpet and scuffed walls.

I dropped my purse and bag on the floor by the kitchen counter and guided Reed to the main living room. Our house was very open with the dining room and living space up front with giant windows that looked out over the handmade porch. The kitchen was set off to the back side and had a cute door with a country-style window on it that led to my dad’s ‘tinkering’ space.

My parents’ room is at the end of the hall and then my room is to the right and Mike’s old room is on the left. Mike always liked having his window face the front because he could sneak out easily, his foot landing right on the porch. My window was over one of the only spaces without decking underneath, so the drop was a good eight feet below since our house was lifted up so high. I did have a huge walk-in closet, though, and my own entrance to the spare bathroom. For a girl, it was pretty perfect.

I gave Reed the fast version of the tour, pointing to the other rooms in the house as we strolled the short hallway. He admired the family photos hung on the walls as we walked.

“Hey, is this you?” he said, pointing to a family portrait that was about 10 years old. I was in a red velvet dress and my hair was in two pigtails on either side of my head. My bangs were short and cut in a perfect straight line, following my eyebrows. My socks were pulled up to my knees and my ankles were crossed showing off my shiny black saddle shoes. I have a vivid memory of the outfit, but not much else.

“That’s me. I was pretty stylish at six,” I joked, hoping he wouldn’t take in too many more embarrassing childhood pictures of me.

“You were cute,” he said, moving on down the hall. “It’s nice that you have these pictures. I don’t really have any of these. My parents divorced when I was in kindergarten and I really bounced back and forth until about fourth grade when my parents decided it was best that I stay with my mom. You know, for ‘consistency in my young life,’” Reed said, rolling his eyes.