Page 13 of Sorrow

Pride isn’t something I have a lot of right now, yet I want to tell him to go to hell allthe same. I just... can’t. I have nowhere else to go. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone with the sunrise.”

“Doubtful seeing as that’s only a few hours away,” he argues. “All I’m saying is my home is the only place I find peace, and you’re a hurricane. Your destruction is inevitable, so in the meantime, maybe try being nice.”

“My home was the only place I ever found peace, and it’s gone now. Don’t worry. I won’t ruin yours too.” Without another word, I climb in the passenger seat of my brother’s cruiser and let them argue amongst themselves, because I don’t care anymore.

It’s not like he can take anything else from me.

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True to my word, I’m dressed and gone before the sun rises. I walk all the way back to the quarry and step over the mountain of empty bottles to get to my truck. One of them spray painted “virgin bitch” on the driver’s side door, and there’s a dent the size of a basketball in the bed that wasn’t there before.

At least my purse and phone are where I left them.

Starting the truck, I sit there for almost a half an hour until the heater thaws the chill in my bones. I don’t know where to go or what to do, and I have no one to call to ask. It’s times like these I miss my dad. He’d have known what to do. He’d have helped.

But he’s gone too.

With the little bit of resolve I have left, I drive back to Hayes’, park under the huge Sycamore tree that always seemed crazy out of place in this town and knock on the front door. I just need a shower and maybe a meal, and then I’ll... I don’t know. See if there’s still a tent city near the crux of the river.

Anything but begging him to let me stay here.

As he opens the aged front door with peeling green paint, his bulky physique fills the space between the frame. But there’s nothing old or run-down about this house past the entrance. The foyer I step into looks like something out of a magazine with a pristine little couch against the wall and a bookcase full of books I doubt he can even read.

When his grandmother passed and left him the house, he took it upon himself to hire contractors to gut the inside. I never had a chance to see it before or since, though Iremember several nights when Boo would come home from helping with flecks of pink insulation dotting his clothes that I thought was cotton candy. I was very, very wrong.

He still teases me about it from time to time.

“I could have taken you to get your truck.”

“I’m not here to inconvenience you... much. I just need a shower and maybe some toast and I’ll go.” Saying it makes my chest throb with pain. I’m used to him being awful, but it’s hard to swallow the fact that after everything, he expects me to leave Boo. “I’ll be quick and I won’t make a mess.”

“Stop being a drama queen. I said you can fucking stay for now, alright? Just say thank you and I’ll make us some food, Hurricane.”

Yeah, I’m a drama queen for having feelings, especially since he didn’t say anything of the sort.

He locks the many deadbolts on his door and brushes past me. Flawless vinyl wood floor stretches into the kitchen, where the marble counters, dark grey walls, and gorgeous black cupboards just piss me off. He really is the richest man in all of Cape Frost outside of The Founders, I think. Thisis certainly the nicest house I’ve ever been inside.

I wonder how it would look if I had a little fun with a hammer.

“I don’t want to stay somewhere I’m not wanted. Would you?”

“You don’t exactly have the luxury of choice, do you? It isn’t about what you or even I want, it’s about what’s right. You can’t sleep in your truck, and the only way you could afford a hotel is if I paid anyway. Might as well cut out the middleman and suck it up. I told you my reasoning so we’d all have the transparency, but next time I’ll bite my tongue so your feelings are spared. Better?”

I’ll be miserable out there. I’ll be miserable in here, but at least I’ll be warm. “Your furnace works.”

“Yeah, it does. Go shower and sit on the right side of the couch where the chaise is. It’s warmer there...Hurricane.”

Seems my new nickname isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

It’s better than fucking Samuel.

He doesn’t show me where the bathroom is, but it can’t be that hard to find. While I wasn’t mentally capable of paying attention to his house last night, it’s set up in sort of ahorseshoe — the foyer leads to the kitchen which loops around to the living room, and on the other side of the living room is a hallway with five doors. The one at the end of the hall looks like an exit, so I assume it leads to the garage where he does his carpentry.

Fancy little woodworking bastard.

The first door on the right is locked, so I move past it to the second and find bags full of tagged clothes on the twin-sized bed. This must be where Boo’s sleeping. For a guest room, it’s cozy. The charcoal walls match the rest of the house and there’s a white vertical dresser in the corner as well as two matching nightstands. I’d compliment him on his style if it wouldn’t make me vomit.

The last room on the right-hand side is a weight room. I’m sonotshocked by this my eyes nearly roll right out of my head, but it does surprise me that he keeps his rippling douche muscles with just a few weights and a treadmill.

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