Page 10 of War Hope
6
Finn
“It doesn’t look good, Finn,” David says. “They’re pretty strict when there have been cases of domestic violence.”
I stare at the icepack laid over the knuckles of my free hand, letting the cool touch of the ice sting my skin. “It wasn’t habitual—”
“She said it was.”
“I shoved her once.”
“She had marks.”
“I know she did, but it was once.”
“She said she’s afraid of you.”
I groan and knock the icepack off my hand. What can I say? Not one fucking thing, because he’s right. Staring at my swollen knuckles, I flex my fingers. “Okay, well, we can keep trying?”
“Of course. These things just take time. She hasn’t terminated your parental rights, so there is still hope.”
“Thanks, David.”
I hang up the phone and grab my beer from the coffee table, taking a swig as I settle back on the couch. Out of habit, I reach in my pocket for my vape pen, but it’s not there. I groan and throw my head back against the sofa cushions when I remember that Hope has it. Tension swirls through me, every so often balling in my gut and waiting to be released. I know plenty of guys like me. Served in the military, seen shit they can'tun-seeand left fucked in the head because of it. I used to go to those groupclasseswhere they ask you to pour out your bleeding heart. All those guys used to say the same thing:nothing helps except fucking and fighting. Half of those guys have ended up divorced just like me because their wives couldn’t handle the aftermath. I don’t blame them. I don’t blame Kiera, but it fucking hurts.Fighting and fucking.I fight, but forget fucking anyone. All these years later, I stilllove her even thoughshewants nothing to dowithme.Ican't letgo ofher because sherepresentsatime whenIwas happy, a time when I was fucking normal.
I standand cross the room,pickingup my guitar from the corner. I strum my fingers over the chords as I make my way back to the couch. I close my eyes and loose myself to the music, humming softly along to the tune. I used to playthis same songto Lydia when she was a baby.Emotion swells in my chestandIfightitback, pushing itdownto therecesses of my soulwhere I have control.
Aknock sounds atmy door.Istop strumming,myfingersresting onthe strings.Theknock comes again and I frownwithoutmoving.
"Finn,Iknowyou're in there," Hope'svoicecomes fromtheotherside of the door. Jesus,she's fucking annoying.There's a moment of silence."Youknow, anyone else might be offended byyourcuntishbehaviour,Finnley."Idon’t move, waiting it out until she finally lets out a huff, followed by an agitated groan. "Fine.I'm leavingfoodoutsideyour door.Eat it,youungrateful bastard."
My landlord is going tokick me out for having that loud-mouthedwomanswearing in the hallway.
I wait until it's been silent for a few minutes before I pick up my guitar and resume playing. Eventually,I tire of playing and get up to go to the front door. I only open it a crack. I don't trust Hope to not be lying in wait. I glance along the corridor before dropping my gaze to the mat. There's a smallTupperwarecontainer and on top of it rests my vape pen.Quickly, I scoop up the plastic box and shove the vape pen in my pocket. The scent oftomatoand garlic wafts up as I close the door. My stomach rumbles as I head into the kitchen, opening the lid. There’s a square of lasagne. A small smile pulls at my lips. I can guarantee it was Poppy who made this because I doubt that Hope McGrath has any culinary or domestic skills, and this lasagne looks and smells like pure perfection.
Hope can be annoying as fuck. I do want her to leave me alone, but I must admit, it's nice of her to go to the effort of bringing this over.
I shove it inside the microwave for a minute, not even waiting to sit back down on the couch before I dig in.Yeah, this is way too good to be Hope's cooking. Scarfing the lasagne down, I pick up my phone and type out abrief message to Hope:Thanks.
She messages back with a little kissy face emoji. I roll my eyes and throw my phone on the coffee table.
This weird feeling settles in my chest because in a life of solitude and isolation, aTupperwarecontainer of lasagne makes merealise that somebody gives a shit, even if I don't myself.
