“You’re a good friend.” She took the bill and shoved it down her Marilyn Monroe-style dress.
“He’s about to find out just how good of one I am, too.”
Lotta Sugar patted my cheek then continued on her fierce, Chevelle-finding way.
A few minutes later, I caught sight of Cillian streaking half-naked across the parking lot, screaming his bloody lungs out.
That was the best money I’d ever spent.
KNOW WHAT’S WORSE than being at a low point? Having to deal with the aftermath.
The aftermath of wondering if I’d ever get back to being the person I’d once been. The aftermath of having my friends and family throw concerned glances my way when they thought I wasn’t looking. The aftermath of looking at all of the pieces at my feet and wondering if I had the strength and desire to build them all back into place. The aftermath and utter devastation of waking up each morning and remembering that I’d pushed away the person I’d wanted to spend my life with in order to protect her from my nuclear fallout.
Three weeks later, and the pieces were coming back together. Slowly, one by one, I was rebuilding myself. I wouldn’t have cared if it took a month or a year if I knew Rowen was waiting for me on the other side. But she wasn’t. Not after the things I’d done and the words I’d said. Even if she’d found some miraculous way to forgive me, I couldn’t let her wait for me.
I couldn’t because I might have been climbing my way back up from the fall, but how long would it be until I fell again? It had been over a decade since the last one, but even if I knew it would be double that before the next one hit, I didn’t want her around to witness that again. I didn’t want that kind of a life for her.
I wanted her to have a stable, loving, and predictable environment. She needed that after the years of chaos she’d lived. One of those three I could give her in unlimited supply, but I could no longer guarantee the other two. I couldn’t guarantee a stable and predictable environment if I was a part of her life.
So as the days turned into weeks, I focused on my routine. I kept my head down and worked until my hands were calloused and my muscles were exhausted. I worked twice as hard as every other hand out there so that when I went to bed, I could fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. Some nights that worked. Some nights it didn’t.
But I kept at it because I didn’t want time to think. I didn’t want a handful of minutes to unwind. I wanted to be busy or asleep. That was the only way to keep distracted from losing Rowen. It was the only way to keep myself from losing myself.
It had been a long month, so when Garth asked if I wanted to come over to his place after dinner and “shoot the shit,” I’d agreed. I’d been spending my fair share of time with Garth lately, but he was one of the only people who knew better than to mention Rowen. Everyone else—Mom, Dad, my sisters, Josie—they all brought her up at every turn, wanting to know if I’d talked to her, or if she’d tried calling me, or why I hadn’t called her, or why she hadn’t called me.
It was enough to drive a man insane. Or drive a man insaner.
I got it, we all loved her, but they didn’t understand where I was coming from and I didn’t know how to help them understand. I had to stay away because of my love for her.
I pulled up to Garth’s trailer slowly, stopping a good hundred yards out. I’d killed the lights a hundred yards earlier. I knew from plenty of experience that I did not want to wake Garth’s dad, Clay, if he was already passed out from his nightly drinking binge. That was like waking a sleeping bear who could lift a shotgun and make a decent aim.
I stepped out of the truck and shut the door. It closed silently. No squeaks or groans. I’d been driving Dad’s truck. Mine hadn’t only died on me; it had mysteriously disappeared off the side of that North Idaho highway. When we’d gone back to get it a few days later, it was gone. Highway patrol had no record of it being towed away and none of the impound shops or tow companies had any record of picking up Old Bessie. She was just . . . gone.
Like so much else in my life.
Great. My thoughts were gloomy and, from the feel of it, about to get gloomier. Garth was going to be thrilled he’d invited me over. Speaking of Garth . . . The man in black looked especially pissed off. As I got closer and saw the shattered beer bottles dotted around where he sat in his lawn chair, I understood why.
“Clay asleep?”
Garth glanced back at the dark trailer. “Either that or he’s dead. My hope’s for the latter.”
I stood in front of Garth, checking out the trailer. It had been a long time since I’d been there. Actually, the last time had been . . .
“Shit, Walker. Would you take a seat and chill? You’re freaking me out standing there looking all deep in thought.” Garth waved to a lounge chair beside him, and my throat ran dry.
That had been the last time I’d been there. When Rowen had been curled up in that chair. I could see her in front of me, her lips parted, her face wrinkled even in sleep, her hand curled around the arm of the chair like it was grounding her.
“Chair.” Garth waved at it. “Ass.” He lifted his just enough to smack it. “Beer.” He pulled one free from the six pack beside him. “Sit.”
“Repeat?”
Garth’s eyes rolled as he tossed me the beer.
“Well, thanks for having me over for a . . . a . . . boys’ night?”
Yeah, that term didn’t sit well with Garth. I could tell that from the way his face screwed up. Hell, when I thought about it, the term didn’t sit well with me either.
“No, this is not a boys’ night. Are you kidding me right now? Did you really just go and call two men in a couple of white-trash chairs, in front a white-trash trailer, drinking white-trash beer . . .” Garth’s eyebrows came together as he lifted his bottle in front of his face. “Yep, that’s the cheap stuff. This, my friend, is not a boys’ night. This isn’t a polo shirt-wearing get-together at some club where guys think it’s okay to down drinks that are more fruit than they are alcohol.”
I raised my hands. “Sorry. Thanks for clarifying.”
“Come on, Walker. I mean, shit. Boys’ night? Really? Really?”
Another reason I enjoyed hanging out with Garth? I was so busy either trying to or avoiding insulting him that a couple of hours could fly by. “Then what do you call this?” I circled my beer around before twisting it open.
“This is motherfuckin’ cowboy game plan time.”
“Game plan? Don’t we have to be coming up with one in order for it to be a game plan?” I took a sip of the beer and put it down. It was bad.
“That’s right,” Garth answered as I sank into the lounger.
I leaned back and tried to relax, but it was hard to do when I could have sworn the chair even smelled like Rowen. “And what game plan are we coming up with tonight, Black? The one that addresses and puts together an action plan on how to fix your screw ups?” I smiled and shoved his arm hard enough that he teetered in his chair.
“Not quite. We’re going to address and put together an action plan to fix yours.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, that’s funny, Garth. Good one.”
“Do I look like I just made a funny?”
Looking at Garth stopped me mid-laugh. He was as serious as Garth Black could get. “What? And you, the guy who wrote the book on how to make a better screw up of your life, is going to give me advice on how to fix mine? Talk about painting the kettle black.”
“I don’t know about no fucking kettle, but I am kind of partial to black.”
I wasn’t sure at first, but with every passing second, I realized just how serious he was. “Let me save you the time and effort because nothing you could say could make me feel any worse about my screw ups.”
“Rowen.”