Page 109 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

She nods, blowing out a breath. “He’s okay. Locked up for the night.” She hesitates. “He hit a family, Eli.” She stumbles over the last of her words and Chase is beside her quick, rubbing her back and whispering in her ear.

A pang of jealousy hits me as Chase supports her. I haven’t been dealing with Pops for as long as Lee has, but the difference in timing doesn’t mean I don’t ache to have someone to lean on. Someone who will rub my back and whisper in my ear that everything will be okay.

I clear my throat. “Don’t worry about Pops, Lee. I’ll pick him up in the morning and we’ll deal with it then.” My eyes bounce back and forth between her and Chase. “You just enjoy the rest of your night.”

Her breathing stutters and Chase’s arms tighten around her waist, feeding her his strength so she doesn’t have to search for her own.

“O… okay.” She nods.

I open my mouth to speak again, but the words don’t come. There’s nothing really left to say right now, anyway. Nothing that can be fixed in a simple conversation, at least. So, instead I go back to Sarah.

Pulling into Pops’s driveway, I feel a curdling in my stomach. Sarah’s quiet, her fingers twisting in her lap as she stares out the window.

This is it.

She heads to the guest room for the night, and I’m left glaring at the worn, brown couch, dreading the kink in my back I’m sure to have when I wake up. But even through the lumps and springs, my eyes close the second my head hits the pillow.

When I wake up in the morning, Sarah’s gone, but it’s not her absence that causes the hollow ache in my chest. It’s the memory of Becca’s taste on my tongue, and her words in my ear.

I love you. I’ve always loved you.

47

Eli

The car ride home from the county detention center is silent. Pops is sober, his eyes bloodshot but clear, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen a hint of the man he keeps buried underneath the booze. There’s an awareness in his gaze that’s been missing since I’ve been back.

His lawyer says he’ll need to pray to whatever God he believes in that the family he hit doesn’t press charges.

He’s lucky. And I think maybe Ma was watching over him—watching over that pregnant woman. That husband. That little girl.

Whatever the case, Pops is looking at some trouble.

The hands of fate have dealt too many blows for me to be convinced that it works in your favor, but maybe there’s a reason I haven’t talked with Pops yet. There’s a tinge of hope expanding in my chest that he’ll be more receptive to the idea of help today. Either way, my nerves are shot, too singed by the flame of Becca’s touch and the ire of Lee’s disappointment to give a damn about the heavy conversation that’s ahead.

We make it to the house, and I follow as Pops walks slowly toward the door. His back is hunched and his shoulders slumped, the bags under his eyes highlighting the soul-deep ache that he stifles with his drink.

He’s just past the entryway when I say his name. “Pops.”

He stops in his tracks, his head hanging low. “What is it, boy?”

I bite my cheek, pushing down the urge to say that it’s nothing. To forget it. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll brew us some coffee and we can talk.”

“I’ve been up all damn night. I’m tired. Just wanna get some rest,” he grunts.

“Pops.” My voice is firm, the rumble vibrating my chest. He twists, his eyes clashing with mine. My natural instinct—what’s been ingrained in me since I was a kid—is to lower my gaze, but I don’t. Even through the tension in my muscles and the bite of anxiety suddenly eating my insides, I hold his stare. Finally, his back heaves with his sigh and he nods, his eyes breaking away to the floor as he walks into the kitchen.

My foot shakes while I start the coffee, pouring us both a cup and sitting at the kitchen table. Pops goes straight for the cabinet to the left of the sink—the one he always goes for—opening it and staring inside.

My fingers tap against the hot ceramic as I watch him, every second ramping up the knots in my stomach. “It’s not there,” I say.

His back straightens and he spins to face me. “And why the hell not?”

“Dumped it down the drain.”

“You had no right,” he hisses.

“I had every right. You’re my father. And you’re sick.”

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