Page 26 of No Place Like Home
I held my breath, but there was no sound. Was she listening on the other side, or had she already gone to bed?
I leaned my back heavily against the door. It didn’t lock. I could’ve opened it, but I wasn’t that kind of guy. Right now, it might as well have been an iron gate rather than a thin piece of wood.
God, I was an idiot. Summer had always made it clear she didn’t want a long-term relationship. That’s why I never made a move before. But after hearing about all the assholes she’d chosen over the years, I couldn’t stay away. I had to tell her how I felt. I was done hiding it. Done pretending I was happy beingjust friends.
Since middle school when I first met her, her father’s inability to be a decent human simultaneously made her life hell and caused a starvation for male attention—but also fed her fear of committed relationships. I should have stepped up sooner. I should have told her then how I felt, but high school guys rarely made good decisions,and my choices were focused on hot cheerleaders and the next party. Even though I liked Summer, I was happy with her as my Summertime—the friend I could always count on.
I sighed heavily and pushed away from the door.
Now, I couldn’t be sure whether Summer felt anything more for me than friendship. The kiss told me maybe she did. My goal when I came home had been to talk to her about my feelings, and I was supposed to talk first and act later. Yeah, well, I fucked that up this way to Sunday.
I paced the living room, and paused occasionally to listen. No sound at all came from the bedroom. It was only nine thirty. There was no way in hell I would be able to get to sleep. I raked my fingers through my hair and sent a text to Trevor.
You busy? I’ve got to get out of this house
It took a while before I got his answer, and I about wore the floor out pacing as I waited.
Nope. Just left the pub. Heading home. Come on by.
I was out the door before I finished reading the last word. I flew down the driveway, turned the music up, and rolled all the windows down. The fresh air and heavy rhythm of the drums and base guitars occupied my brain and kept memories of Summer from taking up too much space in my head.
I drummed my hands on the wheel as I flew down the back roads of Orlinda Valley. Trevor lived about five minutes farther out of town. The night was dark, only lit by a tiny sliver of the moon, but I could find Trevor’s place blindfolded.
Finally, the electrified fence that always signaled the start of Trevor’s family’s property came into view on the left side of the road. I slowed and turned onto a paved drive that led to Trevor’s parents’ house, then veered off of it onto the pothole-filled road that led to his double wide.
He owned at least thirty acres of his parents’ hundred. They had cattle, pigs, chickens, and a few horses, and sold grass-fed beef and pork to locals, as well as to the country stores in Orlinda Valley and surrounding towns. Trevor loved being a farmer and a fireman, and now I guess he loved being a bar owner also. He was a country boy through and through—small-town life had always been his thing. Even though he played football in high school and took up firefighting, farming had always been his goal. And here he was, living his dream.
I pulled in front of the detached garage, walked to his back door, and knocked.
“Man, you don’t have to knock,” Trevor said as he opened the door. “Get your ass in here.”
His house was an open floor plan. The kitchen and eating area, with a bar counter, opened to a large great room with a fireplace in the corner. He had two small bedrooms and a bath down one hallway. His spare room was his home office, hence the reason I wasn’t staying here with him.
He grabbed two beers from the fridge—again, the Summertime Lager and an IPA. “I’ll take the IPA,” I said, probably too quickly. I might not like IPA, but I had to stay away from that other one tonight.
He raised a brow.
I ignored him and took it from his grasp, and we got comfortable in the living room.
“Trev, you’ve really made this place look good. When I was here for Dad’s funeral, it was not much at all.”
“Don’t be so nice. What you mean is, it was a run-down shit hole. Yeah, I considered building, but it’s amazing what pulling up old carpet, adding some new additions to the cabinets, and a coat or three of paint can do.” He placed his feet on the coffee table and crossed his ankles. “So, what the hell happened with you? You sounded desperate.”
“Sounded?” I asked as my brows creased. “I sent you a text.”
“Yeah, well I heard your tone in the words—or, better yet, the words you didn’t say.”
I haven’t been home in about five years, and I didn’t come here to talk about the shit that happened tonight. “I’m not here for advice or to talk about me. I want to know what you’ve been up to.” I sat back. Talking to Trevor had been a good idea.
“I’ve been up to nothing,” he said.
I sat and waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I said, “The pub seems to be doing great.”
“It is,” he said.
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Getting better. Now, back to you.”
