Shameless(5)

The sob I’ve been holding back breaks from my lips, and I quickly cover my mouth to mask the sounds.

It doesn’t take a genius to see I’m in over my head. Way over my head. I keep saying everything will be okay when Brady gets here. I only hope that’s true.





3





Brady





Logan Airport is blanketed in several feet of snow and soot after a storm blew in the other night. Boston in November. It’ll get worse before it gets better.

All around me, the Thanksgiving decorations hanging in the terminal stand garish next to the rage and disbelief churning in my heart. I still can’t fully wrap my head around what happened that night.

After playing phone tag with the police department, I finally spoke briefly with a deputy who explained that my brother’s truck got caught in a low water crossing during a torrential thunderstorm. His vehicle slid down an embankment and flipped over, trapping him and his family in a flooded creek bed.

My vision blurs as I stare out the massive windows.

“Do those directions make sense?” The Southern drawl in my ear snaps me out of my haze, and I readjust the phone against my shoulder. The woman repeats the words, but I can’t process what she’s saying. It’s like I woke up the other morning and nothing in my life makes sense any more.

Taking a deep breath, I try to pay attention. This is the first phone call Katherine and I have had that hasn’t been completely garbled with static. I’m lucky to get one bar of signal on my phone here.

I clear my throat. “Can you do me a favor? Can you text me directions to the farm?”

She sighs. “Sure. No problem. See ya soon.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

I should be nicer to that woman. Katherine, Melissa’s friend, has been keeping an eye on the property since we got the news three days ago. I booked the first flight out, but weather delays have bumped my departure twice. Needless to say, sleeping upright on a hard chair for the last few nights at Logan has put me in a peachy mood.

When I step off the plane in Austin five hours later, I take the used Harley FXR for sale across the street from Hertz as a sign. Granted, it needs a lot of work, but I know a good thing when I see it. And since I sold my bike six months ago for twice what I paid after making some repairs, I’m sure I’ll be able to get my money back if I need to sell this one. Besides, I’d rather ride this than rent a car for God knows how long.

Forty-five minutes and two grand later, she’s mine.

Dropping this kind of money on a bike is the most irresponsible thing I’ve done in ages. But sitting on the worn leather and gripping the handlebars is the only thing that’s made me feel I can keep my shit together. I’m hoping a few long rides will help me clear my head and figure out how the hell to handle everything that needs to be done down here. Fortunately, I packed light, and my belongings fit on the rusty luggage rack that’s mounted on the back.

Riding with the sun setting along the horizon, with the smell of cedar thick in the air, helps me feel a little more grounded. That is, until I turn down a dirt road and find myself staring at the little farm house. A dirty sign stands off to the side. Lovelace Farm.

The house is modest, a white one-story ranch with a wide front porch. In the dusk, it glows, with warm lights shimmering from one window. But the rest of the house is dark, and it’s that darkness that gives me chills.

“I’m sorry, brother. You had a beautiful dream.” I idle in the driveway while heat burns my eyes. Rolling hills with row after row of small hedges surround the house. A broken swing sways beneath the branches of a giant oak off to the side.

It’s so peaceful here. So different from the chaotic streets of Boston. At the same time, though, it’s eerie, almost like I can sense my brother. That’s my biggest regret. That I didn’t visit him. That I didn’t take the time to meet his wife and daughter and see their little farm.

That I didn’t call him back that night.

I just was so pissed at him for not returning to Boston and helping our parents. But now, it’s painfully obvious how wrong I’ve been. And somehow, I need to make it right.

Pulling closer to the house, I turn off the engine. I’m taking off my crappy helmet when the front door flies open and a girl stalks out. Her long chestnut hair blows in the wind, barely masking the scowl on her pretty face.

“If you’re looking for the Lone Star biker bar, it’s about a half mile back that way.” Her words are twangy, a little like Reese Witherspoon in Walk the Line.

She points to the left before she pushes her black-rimmed glasses up her nose. God, she’s cute with these big eyes and quirky frown. What does her t-shirt say? I squint, trying to read the words. Frack Off is written in big black letters across her t-shirt that peeks out from her hoodie.

When my eyes reach her face, she looks more pissed. “Do me a favor. When you leave, turn that way down the drive or you’ll wake the baby.” She nods toward the circular drive I just came down before she freezes and cocks her head. The sound of a baby crying breaks the silence.

“Dang it!” She turns on her heel and is halfway through the door when I call out to her.

“Sorry about waking the baby, but I’m looking for Katherine.” She stops mid-stride, and I motion toward the house. “Is she here?”