Page 88 of Eight Second Hearts

He doesn’t bother knocking. Instead, he just turns the knob and steps inside. “Hello,” he calls, “it’s Tripp.”

Darla appears from around the doorway. She doesn’t smile. Dark circles ring her eyes, and she looks far more tired than the last time we’d seen her.

“You good?” Tripp asks her, clearly seeing the same thing I am.

She nods. “It’s a good day. If you wanna talk to him.” She gestures behind her to the living room.

Then she steps out onto the porch and leaves us to it. As if she feels the heaviness in the air or she desperately needed a second to herself.

“I’ll talk to her after,” Tripp says, staring at the door where she’d disappeared. Clearly, he’d seen what I’d seen, too.

He tugs me toward the living room, and I trail alongside him, my steps light where his is heavy.

“Who’s that?” his voice says before we enter the room. When he sees us, he sniffs. “Ah. Tripp. Shouldn’t you still be chasing the circuit?”

Tripp shrugs. “Decided to take a break.”

The old man’s face twists up. “Savages don’t take breaks. I suggest you get back out there and earn your fucking keep, boy. All these years of training ain’t gonna pay for themselves.”

“I’d say he’s already earned that back and more,” I comment, forgetting for a second that I should be quiet. When those blue eyes focus on me, I don’t shrivel like my instinct says to. Instead, I remain straight with my chin up. “He’s a multi-million dollar cowboy,” I add. “He’s made a hell of a lot of money.”

“And who the hell are you?” he growls. “And what are you doin’ in my house?”

“My house,” Tripp corrects, his eyes hard. “She can go wherever she pleases.”

Fred Junior sniffs and glares at his son. “I clearly didn’t beat you hard enough to fix that attitude.”

“No,” Tripp replies. “You didn’t. And that’s why I’m here actually.”

His dad stands from his seat to look Tripp eye to eye. His lip curls up. “I see.”

“What is it you think you see?” Tripp asks, not backing down.

His lip curls further into a scowl. “Your mother,” he spits. “She often had that look in her eyes up until God took ‘er.” For a second, he seems to forget himself, and he looks over his shoulder. “Where is that woman? I ain’t seen her in too long. Bet she’s up to no good.”

“Dad,” Tripp says, but Fred continues to mumble, so he reaches out and touches his arm. Fred jerks his head and looks back at Tripp, his eyes full of hatred. “Look, I came here to tell you?—”

“I don’t care what you came here to tell me!” his dad snarls. “You get back on that circuit and earn your fuckin’ keep! Or else I’ll toss you and those rat friends of yours out on the streets!”

Tripp tenses, seemingly understanding that this conversation isn’t going anywhere. It may be a good day, but the man still is who he is. There won’t be any changing that.

I squeeze his hand. “Tripp,” I whisper, letting him know I’m here.

He stares at the man who raised him, who beat him within an inch of his life, who branded him, and I see the realization that it’s too late to speak to him. He’s too far into cognitive decline. A good day just means he sees Tripp at thirty-two. But in a few minutes, he could be someone else, or a stranger. It’s too late for this talk, but it’s not too late for Tripp to open the box inside him and start to heal.

“You know,” he says, staring at the old man. “I don’t think you’re a good person, Dad.”

His dad’s face flashes with anger. “And you are?” he snarls.

Tripp doesn’t get angry back. He doesn’t take offense. He just stares at him and slowly shakes his head. “No,” he admits softly. “I’m too much like you for that.” He glances at me. “Come on, scribbler. I have no business here.”

Fred doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all.

“You come back here, boy! You can’t come marching into my house like you own this place! I raised you! You’d be nothing without me!”

“Maybe not,” Tripp says as he tugs me toward the door.

Fred slams his fist into the table lamp, and it shatters across the floor. Tripp doesn’t react, but I jump a little at the sudden sound.

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