Page 89 of Eight Second Hearts

“You’re just like my father!” he snarls. “Just like him.”

Tripp glances over his shoulder at him. “Yeah. I’d kill myself to get away from you, too,” he drops.

My hearts squeezes painfully. That’s a fact I’ve never uncovered, never been told. Fred Senior had killed himself? Holy shit. But what’s even more terrifying is the reaction thatFred Junior has. Full tilt anger fills him, and he starts raging through the living room, breaking what he can. Luckily, there doesn’t seem to be much left. This must happen all the time.

We step outside and Darla is sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t look over at us as we close the door and seal the raging shouts behind us.

“Sounds like you ruined the good day,” she mumbles.

“Don’t worry about cleaning it up,” Tripp replies. “I’ll have someone come take care of it.”

She glances over at him, distrust in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugs. “I’ve spent a lot of time blaming you and your mama for something that wasn’t your fault,” he admits. “This place, ain’t a one of us should have been here.”

She stares at him and then her eyes flick to me, curious. “This is very out of character for you, big brother.”

“And I’m sorry about th?—”

She leaps to her feet and sends the rocking chair crashing back into the wall. “No! Fuck you!” she snarls, before stamping out her cigarette on the floor. “You don’t get to do that!”

Tripp frowns. “Do what?”

“Apologize,” she spits, crossing her arms. “You’ve kept me trapped in this house, trapped here with him! You’ve made it nearly impossible for me to leave, giving me just enough money to survive on.”

“Now hold on,” Tripp growls. “You get five grand a month and pay no bills! How is that not enough to—” Her face crunches up and he cuts off. “Look, Darla. I didn’t come here to fight. I just came to tell you that I know I fucked up. That I’m tryin’ to make amends for my avoidance of the problems. I’ll be hiring someone else to take care of him, even if we gotta ship him off somewhere.” I glance toward the door. “It’s time we all be free of that asshole.”

“So what? Happily ever after?” she spits. “You want me to keep living in this hellhole for the rest of my life?”

“No,” Tripp says, shaking his head. “You want a house, I’ll build you a house on any part of this land you want. This house?” He glances up at it the large pillars. “I’m burning this house to the fuckin’ ground.”

She blinks. “And if I say I don’t want to stay?”

“Then I’ll build you a house wherever you want,” he says. “I’ll help you as much as I’m able.”

She bares her teeth. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says, and I watch him resolve himself. “I really am sorry, Darla.”

“You don’t get to apologize,” she growls. “I don’t want you to apologize. I want the guilt to eat you alive. I want you to drown in your thoughts like I drowned in mine.” She storms forward and pokes him in the chest. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re no better than the man who brought us into this hellhole.” She glances at me. “I hope you’re stronger than you look, lady, because if I was you, I’d be running, screaming for the hills right about now.” She glances back at Tripp. “I’ll pack my bags. I expect someone to come take care of him.”

She storms inside the house and leaves us standing there. Tripp stands tall, but he’s not tense.

“She’s angry,” I murmur. “She’s just as much hurt as you are.”

“I know that,” he whispers. “I just wish it didn’t take me so long to see her as an ally rather than my enemy.” He shakes his head. “He pinned us against each other. I never realized it before but. . . it was one of his favorite tactics. It just didn’t work on Beau, Ram, and me.”

“This is the start of healing that relationship,” I nod. “You have a lot to make up for. I hope I’m around one day to see you two see eye to eye.”

“Maybe it won’t happen,” he shrugs. “But I’ll try my best.” He glances at the door. “Darla deserves a chance. She used to wanna be a dancer. It may be too late for that, but if she still wants to pursue her dreams, I’ll help her.”

I squeeze his hand. But before I can respond, my phone rings. I sigh and glance at the caller id, frowning at the same number that I’ve seen a million times. Frowning, I hit the reject button.

The door pops open and Fred Jr pokes his head out. “Who the hell are you and why are you on my porch? I don’t want nothing you’re selling!” he shouts. “Go on! Get! ‘Fore I get my shotgun out and make you go.”

There’s no recognition in his eyes for his son.

“Yes, sir,” Tripp says. “Sorry to bother you.”

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