Heartbreaker(18)

“I’m hanging up on you.”

“No, no, wait!” Kyle calls. I reluctantly lift the phone back up. “I’ll see if I can push them a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of months,” I correct him.

“Same thing. Whenever you’re done getting back to your roots. What are you doing down there, anyway?” Kyle asks. “You swore you’d never step foot back in that town.”

I think of Eva in my arms last night, and how her body pressed against me, her mouth demanding everything. I meant what I said to her: this isn’t over, not by a long shot.

“I’ve got my reasons.”



I head back to the house, admiring its stately glory. I knew from the look on Eva’s face as she walked up the front path this was the place I’d take. I’d have rented a shack on the cliffs if she’d smiled the way she did when she opened the front door here, but this is better. Not bad for a kid who grew up in a rundown house on the wrong side of the tracks, barely one step up from a trailer. I guess I should be used to it by now, the zeros in my bank account. Kyle tells me the way the record is selling, I could buy myself a private jet and still have plenty left over for change. But a part of me still feels like I’m living paycheck to paycheck and working every last dollar to get by.

I head up the path – and find someone waiting for me on the front steps. Sheriff Keller. “Bill.” I stop, wary right away. “Everything okay?”

“Don’t worry, son,” he chuckles. “This is a personal visit, not business.”

I give him a wry smile. “You know me, nothing to hide.”

Bill snorts, probably remembering the days I spent thumbing my nose at the law in this town. He always cut me a break because he was friends with my dad. They served together back in the day, and I dread to think what kind of juvie record I’d have under my belt if he hadn’t looked the other way. “How’s Marcie?” I ask. “And the kids?”

“Oh, you know.” Bill rolls his eyes. “My youngest just discovered boy bands, and Chris came back from school with a ballpoint pen tattoo. Whole damn thing’s infected now. Serves the kid right.”

“I can give him the name of a real tattoo artist, if you like.”

Bill glares. “Don’t you go giving him ideas.”

I wonder what brought him out here. Bill just strolls to the end of the porch and looks around. “Nice place you’ve got here. I heard they fixed this place up.”

“Yup.”

“Staying long?”

“A couple of months, maybe.” I keep watching him. “You want something to drink?”

“No thanks, son.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, looking awkward. “You been by the graveyard yet?”

Every bone in my body turns to lead. I slowly shake my head.

“I know you couldn’t make it back, but we did it up right.” Bill says, somber. “A soldier’s burial, had some of the boys down from Fort Bragg. It wasn’t a twenty-one gun salute, but it was something. I saved the flag for you, if you want to come by--”

“No. Thanks,” I add, through gritted teeth.

Bill clears his throat. “Look, it’s none of my business, but I told your dad I’d keep an eye out for you, after he went.”

I wonder whose idea that was. I’m guessing Bill’s, because my pop never gave a damn how I was doing while he was still alive. But I know Bill’s only trying to help, so I keep my tone even, hiding the anger in my blood. “As you can see, I’m doing just fine.”

He nods thoughtfully. “And we’re all real proud of you.” He waits another moment, but I don’t offer anything more, and eventually he sighs. “Well, you just let me know if you change your mind. I still have some of his things: memorabilia, old mementos he wanted you to have.”

My fists stay clenched at my sides. “Keep them.”

Bill nods again, his expression regretful. “Take care. And watch that speed limit,” he adds, turning to leave. “No more drag racing down Main Street!”

I watch him go, frozen in place there on the porch with every muscle in my body clenched and alert until he gets back into his patrol car and slowly drives away.

I slowly exhale, forcing myself to relax.

He means well, I remind myself. Hell, he probably thought he was doing me a favor, stopping by with word from my old man. He always did try to help. Back in the old days, he was the one who kept Hank out of jail, scraping him off the sidewalk at three in the morning to cool off in the drunk tank. Bill meant well, I know, but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t complicit in the whole damn thing. Maybe my father might have been forced to shape up if he saw any real consequences.

But then I remind myself my dad had plenty of chances to change. He was scarred too deep, broken in ways nobody could fix. Back then as a kid, I didn’t understand. After mom left, I thought at first I was the one failing him, always making him mad, provoking that whiplash rage that would make him fly off the handle and reach for his belt. I tried so damn hard to keep things quiet, tip-toing around him like an intruder in my own home, scared he would leave me, too. By the time I was old enough to realize it wasn’t my fault, I dove headlong into anger instead. I was so damn mad at him for driving mom away, for drinking himself into an early grave, for never being the father other kids got to have. I’d see the town fathers out around, standing on the sidelines during ballgames, or showing up to parent-teacher nights at school, and it would hurt like hell, the deep-down, empty ache. I was left to struggle alone with that ticking time-bomb getting drunk in the next room. Meanwhile there were men like Bill, who somehow managed to put scars of war behind them, to show up and be decent for their family.