Page 34 of Downpour

“Brooke?” Ray was still stretched out on the couch. He was awake, but drowsy. His hair was messy, hanging in his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Late. I’ve gotta go.” I jumped into my flip-flops and grabbed my keys, but paused and braced my hands on the edge of the coffee table as my head spun.

I hissed and cradled my temple. It felt like I had been hit by a sledgehammer. How could one frail, old man do that much damage?

“You shouldn’t be driving,” he said as he held onto the arm of the couch and pushed up until he was sitting. “You could have a concussion.”

As much as I wanted to stay and have a lazy morning with him, I didn’t have the time. “I drove yesterday. I’ll be fine. I have to go.”

Ray’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Brooke?—“

The rough tone of his voice made my heart ache. Was he worried or angry?

Probably angry. I had fallen asleep on his couch—on him.

I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. In fact, I didn’t know if I’d even be coming back.

I needed to call Peggy back, then use the rest of my drive back to town to figure out where I was going to start applying for jobs.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I darted out of the house.

I waited to call Peggy until I had made it back onto the paved service road. The bumps and potholes along the ranch’s dirt paths had the tendency to make my car scream like a banshee.

I felt like I was going to throw up as I waited for her to pick up.

“Caring Hands Home Help. This is Peggy. How may I help?—“

“Peggy, it’s Brooke. I’m so sorry. I—I overslept and I didn’t hear my phone going off and I?—”

She huffed. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all morning.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I’m heading to Mr. Wilson’s house right now.”

“Don’t bother,” she clipped.

My heart dropped.

I had been trying so hard. I didn’t mean to be this much of a wreck, but sometimes I just was. I couldn’t help that my roommates liked to operate on nocturnal schedules and throw parties. I couldn’t help that my car wouldn’t let me go over forty miles an hour. I couldn’t help that I was always late to the ranch because Mr. Wilson made it hard to get away. I couldn’t help that the agency only gave me one uniform shirt, so it was always dirty.

But I was trying. I really, really was.

I just wanted to be good at something.

“Am I getting fired?” I whispered.

Peggy huffed. “We’ll talk when you get here.”

I made the drive back to the office in silence. I couldn’t even muster the desire to turn on the radio to something cheery. It was the perfect day to scream “Great Balls of Fire” at the top of my lungs and bop around in the driver’s seat, but I couldn’t be bothered. It felt like I was driving to my own execution.

I pulled up to the curb and didn’t even bother waiting out the perfunctory three minutes before heading inside. I just unbuckled my seatbelt, got out, and loped up the steps to the office.

Peggy wasn’t at her desk, so I sat in the chair across from hers and waited.

“Oh,” she said when she bustled into the front, carrying a thick stack of papers that smelled like they were fresh from the copier. “You’re here.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She dropped down into the rolling desk chair and practically threw the stack of papers at me. “Sign these.”

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