Page 28 of Come Break My Heart Again

“Nice to see you,” I say, then continue walking toward the front door.

When I reach the stairs, I realize why my hands feel so empty; I left the plastic bag of my belongings in the back seat of my mom’s car.

Not that it really matters. My phone is useless—dead and disconnected from service—and my lack of a car makes my expired driver’s license unnecessary as well. All I care about are the letters.

I’ve gotnothing. It makes leaving so tempting.

Starting over sounds so much better anywhere else. Some town where I can walk around without being stared at or whispered about. Someplace without painful memories.

But I can’t leave my mom. I’d never forgive myself, even if she would.

I fish the spare key out from under the ceramic turtle Cormac painted in art class the year we first moved here, then unlock the front door. A slight breeze stirs the air before I step inside, making the wind chimes someone hung up across the street tinkle. I glance over and glare at the cheerful sound before stepping inside and shutting the door behind me.

Staring at the interior of the trailer is incredibly nostalgic. The kitchen is neat and tidy, which wasn’t always the case when I was younger and is a relief to see. My mom has been living alonefor most of the past two years, ever since Cormac left for college. She easily could have backslid into bad habits.

I flip through a few magazines on the counter, then walk over to the fridge. My mom was right; it’s mostly empty, but I’m not that hungry anyway.

I shut the fridge door. Take a seat at the kitchen table and drum my fingers against the worn wood. Pick up the landline and dial the phone number I still have memorized.

“Franklin Construction.”

“How come you don’t have a work phone?” I ask.

“Ryder?” Tuck laughs. “Holy shit, man. You’re out?”

I rub at a scratch on the scuffed surface. “Yep, I’m out. Couple of hours ago.”

“Wow. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” My tone is dry. I’m not sure if years of counting down days is an accomplishment to cheer completing.

“Not the right sentiment, huh?”

“Hell if I know.”

Tucker chuckles. “Well, we’re celebrating anyway. You doing dinner with your family?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“’Kay. I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll get beers at Malone’s.”

“Can we go to the house instead? I’d rather avoid the stares and finally see this place in person.”

Three years ago, Tucker started his own construction business. He focused on smaller projects at first, then bought an old house in the One section of town with the intention of flipping it. Ever since the sale went through, he’s been saying he wants me to manage the renovation. Business has grown to the point that he can’t oversee everything on his own.

There aren’t many places hiring in town, even fewer who would consider hiringme, so I agreed as soon as I found outabout my mom’s cancer. I could use a steady paycheck and something to keep my mind occupied.

“Yeah, sure,” he responds. “Just … promise me you’ll give it a chance.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Well … it’s been sitting empty for a while. It’s in rough shape. Needs a lot of work.”

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands, Tuck.”

He chortles. “Right. Yeah. I just … there’s a reason the bank sold it dirt cheap. I don’t want you to get discouraged.”

I lean back in the chair. “I won’t.”

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