Page 68 of Eight Second Hearts

Beau frowns. “Yeah.”

“Do you know where it is?” I gesture to the man wildly searching through the cabinets. “That way we can get this put to bed.”

He shakes his head. “He won’t find it.” At my confusion, he sighs. “He’s lookin’ for his mama’s wedding ring. He used to keep it up on the top shelf in a glass, out of sight, but there just in case. About three years ago, he decided that his mama wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered by her marriage to his piece of shit dad, so he took that ring, and he chunked it into the mountains.” He glances at me. “It’s gone. Ain’t no findin’ it.”

I blow out a puff of air. “Okay, so new plan.” I slide my feet into the too-large boots against the wall. I’m not sure which of the men these belong to, but I can’t walk into the kitchen withbare feet, not when there’s glass everywhere. “I’m gonna try and talk to him.”

“Careful,” Beau orders. “He can get volatile when he’s this drunk. He likely won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

I nod, understanding. “I have a bit of experience with this.”

Beau’s curious gaze doesn’t stop me from moving slowly into the kitchen, glass crunching under the heavy boots as I ease inside. I don’t have time to explain the sheer number of times my dad went through something like this. He used to get this drunk and scream for my mom, waking everyone up in the apartment complex as he stood on the balcony and cried for her. The number of times I’d had to talk him down outnumber the times I was able to have a coherent conversation with him. Worse, I found him with a handful of pills a few times. Nothing like being sixteen and having to convince your dad to not kill himself.

“Tripp,” I say softly, holding my hand out in front of me like I’m trying not to spook a wild animal.

He whirls at the sound of my voice and the crunch of the glass, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “I can’t find it,” he tells me, but I’m not sure if he even knows who I am. There’s no telling.

“I know, cowboy,” I say. “I know you can’t find it. How about you let me take care of your feet and we can look for it together?”

“My feet,” he repeats, looking down at the feet in question. He shakes his head. “No, I have to find it first. I need to. . . I need. . .”

I inch closer. “I can help you look,” I offer. “But I’m not sure you’re gonna find it here.”

“It has to be here,” he mumbles, then louder he shouts, “It has to be here!” He grabs a glass from the counter and slams it to the ground. I jump as it shatters, glass pieces exploding around me.

“Indie bird,” Beau says in warning.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, taking another step. “It’s okay. I got him.” I reach for Tripp. “Come with me, cowboy. We’ll get this figured out.”

“No!” he screams, sweeping the pots and pans off the counter, the crash loud in my ears. “No! He took it! I know he took it! He’s taken everything from me! He can’t have this, too!” He sweeps more out of the cabinets, ceramic plates shattering.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Ram growls, appearing from around the corner in a panic, finally awake.

“Tripp,” Beau explains. “He’s lookin’ for the ring.”

Ram’s shoulders slump. “Fuck,” he grunts, followed by a short burst of Spanish I don’t catch. “I knew it was a bad idea to throw it away.”

Tripp starts to rage at anything he can find, throwing everything off the counters. “You fucking asshole!” he screams. “You fucking bastard! You killed her! You killer her! You stole everything from me!”

I glance back at Beau, worried. “What do I do?”

“We usually just let him wear himself out,” Ram says. “I’ve been hit in the face too many times to step in. In fact, you should probably come back over here so he doesn’t clock you.”

“We can’t just leave him like this,” I reason. “He’s going to destroy the house.”

“All replaceable,” Ram argues. “Come on, Indie.”

I shake my head and take another step toward Tripp. “I’m not leaving him. He needs help.” I jump when another glass shatters and a few of the pieces hit my legs, leaving little cuts behind. I don’t bother looking down at them, knowing that there’s nothing I can do about it right now. It’s hardly an emergency.

“Tripp,” I try. When he doesn’t respond, I go for a sterner tone. “Tripp Earl Savage,” I growl. He pauses. “That’s enough,” I say, using the voice my own mother used to use on me when I’dstolen one too many of her pens. “You’ve made your mess. It’s time to stop.”

“He stole it,” he croaks, his eyes watering. “He stole her! He took everything from me.”

“I know he did,” I reply, nodding my head seriously. “I know that bastard stole from you, but he didn’t take everything.”

“He didn’t?” he whispers.

“He didn’t,” I answer confidently. “You are Tripp Savage. You are a fucking champion bull rider. You are a good man and you’re not alone. He can’t take that from you. He can’t.”

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