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“Hey!” Glory hollers from the porch. “You left the bucket of dirty mop water. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

I don’t respond; I drive. Fast. If what she says is true, as mad as I am at her, I’m furious with Ford. The only thing keeping me upright: In three more months, I’ll never see either of them again.

Twenty-Eight

Myheelsclickata quick staccato as I storm into the police station like a general out for blood on the battlefield. Familiar officers wave, a few call out greetings; I ignore them.

Scan the room.

Stop in the middle with hands cupped around my mouth.

“Hey!” I shout, silencing the few people talking. “Where’s Ford?”

“Ohh, someone’s in trouble,” a young officer sings with a laugh. At my snarl, his laugh dies. He clears his throat. “I think he’s in the back. Second door.”

I don’t knock, I swing it open. He’s in his uniform, drinking coffee out of a paper cup, flipping through a file. “Scotty.” He looks over my shoulder like he’s expecting a horde of people behind me as I march toward him. “Everything okay?”

I don’t hesitate, I slap him across the face.

Eyes wide, he brings a hand to his cheek.

“Tell me,” I say, not fighting the angry tears in my eyes. “Right the fuck now, Ford. You buy that car for Glory?”

His face falls and I have my answer: He did. He doesn’t need to say it, it’s written all over him. I turn to leave.

“Wait.” He wraps his hand around my bicep, stopping me, his eyes pleading. “I should have told you.”

I laugh, loud and furious. “Should have told me?” I cry. “Is that what this all is? You repainting yourself as a hero for dropping a friend off at a house twenty years ago? I’m some kind of—of atonement? Get the lonely girl to forgive you for leaving and then fuck the guilt out of your system? Saving me the way you couldn’t save him? Show up until you’ve done your time?”

“Scotty, no.No.” His eyes are desperate, like he believes his own lies. “I’m in love with you. I don’t think I ever stopped. I fell in love with you when we were kids, and I knew—”

“Tell me this is a joke,” I cut him off, snatching my arm out of his grasp, blood boiling. I almost didn’t bother coming. I sat in the parking lot for ten minutes staring at the station. Torn between needing to hear him say the words and never wanting to hear him say another damn word for the rest of my life. Now, with the truth out and my whole body feeling shredded, I wish I would have driven away. “You don’t get to say that to me. After you get Glory—the woman who couldn’t get around to picking me up from school, never called me to tell me about my brother dying—a car. And a job. On Ford’s Retribution Tour.” I pause, a new hole digging inside of me. “The house?”

He blinks.

“Dammit, Ford.” I’m seething and shouting, my body trembling with every word. “Did Archie give me the house on his own, or did you have something to do with it? Your families were friends.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “He asked me if I thought you’d take it, and I said I didn’t know. Actually, I said I don’t think anyone can predict what Scotty does.” He almost laughs and I glare. “It’s not like you think. Scotty, Archie was—”

“Stop.” I don’t care what he has to say, I’m done here. I glare at him, shake my head, and turn to leave. I knew this would happen. Knew this wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last.

He grabs my arm again, stopping me. “Wait.”

We stand that way, his hand around my arm, staring at each other. Tears burn my eyes that I have no way to stop from dripping down my face; it’s foolish to not want to believe the truth that so clearly seems to be real. Ford is with me to make himself feel better.

“I have something for you—that you need to see. Will you wait if I go get it?” His eyes search mine and I look away, not answering.

He reads my silence as a yes because he disappears down the hall and returns with an envelope, my name scribbled on the front. I look at him. He’s not smiley; he’s serious. Maybe even scared.

“This explains everything.” He holds the envelope out to me, and I take it, staring at it like it contains a live bomb. “Every part of why I left. Why I’m back. Why I helped Glory. Take this, go through it. And”—he shakes his head—“just take it.” He kisses me, hard and like he’ssaying goodbye.

“Callahan,” someone shouts from down the hall. “We have a call.”

He looks at me, I say nothing, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone with an envelope and gut filled with dread.

Twenty-Nine

Zebusedtogoto a scenic overlook on the outskirts of town with his guitar to write music.“Lyrics just live out in this mountain air,”he’d say. Sometimes I’d go with him, sitting on a rock and reading a book while he strummed chords and wrote lyrics in a notebook.