Page 83 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

I

t’s even harder to admit things about yourself.

I’ve ignored a lot in my life—a master of avoidance. It’s not a badge I wear with honor, but it’s one I wear all the same. Coming home has loosened the stitching, warping the edges and letting them dangle off my soul. Maybe it’s time to rip it clean off.

Pops is an alcoholic.

It’s obvious in the pallor of his skin, and his liquor-soaked breath. Plain as day in Lee’s shoulders as they slump under the weight of his addiction. It screams from the slur in his speech, and the defeat that pours from Lee’s gaze.

Still, none of that is what made me open my eyes.

It was the look in Chase’s stare as he pleaded with me to just fucking see before it was too late. I don’t know what Chase went through, but I know what it looks like when regret lives inside you, and his was spilling on the floor with every word he spoke. He doused me in the icy water of truth, and woke me the hell up.

Now I’ll never sleep again.

There’s no hiding the handles of Jameson clinking in the trash after being emptied through the day—snuck into Pops’s coffee cups and his Dr. Peppers. No ignoring the boxes of beer, broken down by the back door, slid behind the garbage can to keep out of sight.

I have no clue how he’s kept it from the town for as long as he has. I will never be able to make up for the past. There’s no magic button to reset all the ways I’ve failed the people around me, all the ways I’ve failed myself.

But I can keep from regretting my future.

I give Mark my email and hang up the phone, knowing I won’t go back inside. I can’t handle Becca, knowing she’ll see the pain that’s rubbed raw and exposed.

Instead, I study the church cemetery across the lot. My vision blurs the longer I stare, queasiness stirring in my stomach when I think about Ma’s grave. I’ve only seen it once—the day she was buried—mounds of dirt coating my soul as it was shoveled on top of her remains. I remember the feel as it soaked into my skin, infusing every pore with grime that even the strongest soap can’t wash away.

But more than that, I remember the feeling of complete and utter isolation in a sea of family and friends.

Lee had Jax and Becca. Pops had Sam. But I was just there, falling, with no one to catch me, dropping in the six-foot grave that was meant for Ma. I’ve laid there ever since, searching for a helping hand.

There was a time I reached for Becca’s. Thought she’d be the one to help me climb. But she only pushed me further down, embedding my soles so deep, no one else could ever dig me up.

I’m tired of letting the past fester and rot in the deepest parts of me.

Tired of being afraid.

It’s time to find my own way out.

It’s after dinner when I decide to talk to Sarah. Shouldn’t I be able to share the roughest parts of me with the woman I’m spending the rest of my life with?

Shouldn’t she want to know?

She’s sitting on the bed, fresh out of the shower, rubbing lotion on her legs.

I’ve just changed into basketball shorts and a white tank, and I’m gripping the edge of the dresser, watching her in the mirror.

“I think I’m gonna visit Ma tomorrow,” I blurt.

“Hmm.” She hums, rubbing the lotion on her skin.

I wait to see if she’s going to say more. Maybe offer some support, and recognize that I’m vibrating from the effort to stay in one piece.

She doesn’t.

I spin, the lip of the dresser biting into my skin as I rest against it. “Yeah. I haven’t seen her grave since she’s been buried there. I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

She stops, putting the lotion to the side and peering at me. “Why would you be nervous?”

Maybe her words are normal, but they feel like a thousand knives aimed directly at my chest. What does she mean why would I be nervous? I may not have opened up to her much, reveling in the surface level she provides, but isn’t it obvious?

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