Page 9 of His Country
“Hmm.”
That was it. The stranger poked at Aiden’s bleeding wound and then hummed it away. He was dressed casually. Loose jeans and a flannel shirt peeking out from under a puffy jacket that swished when he moved. One leg canted up and his wrist hanging over it, dangling limply. His eyes were hidden behind drooped lids, looking out over the farm without a care in the world.
“You going to inhale?”
“You going to fuck off?”
He smiled around the cigarette, the tip flaring brighter with his breath. “I can. Thought you might like some company.”
“What gave you that impression?”
He huffed. “You caught me. It’s either sit with you or deal with the shit show back there. And I’ve been awake for forty hours too long to handle that.”
Aiden could accept that. He dropped his head back against the truck, letting the cigarette stink up his clothes and hair. He knew if he tried to inhale he’d just embarrass himself. Aiden couldn’t even stand being in a smoky bar. But it helped. Something to hold onto, something to focus on, it helped keep him from spiraling.
“So,” the stranger began casually. “Who pissed in your cheerios?”
Aiden snorted. “You give me one cigarette and I’m supposed to what? Confide in you?”
“Who else?”
And wasn’t that the kicker. He didn’t have anyone else. By design, Aiden had isolated himself to the point that there was no one who’d give a damn if he lived or died. Hell, short of stinking up the place, no one would even notice.
“No one,” he said finally, putting the cigarette out beside him. He stood, brushing off his pants.
The man watched him, eyes too bright. Too benign. “He tried to find you. Went to the cops and everything.”
He should have known this stranger had an ulterior motive. Aiden flicked the doused cigarette towards him. It hit the guy’s chest. “I wasn’t missing.”
“You were to him.”
Aiden clenched his jaw. “I chose to leave. It’s not a fucking crime.”
The guy tilted his head like his new vantage point could help him see through all of Aiden’s bullshit. “You didn’t leave. You ran.”
“Yeah,” he ground out, resisting the urge to kick the guy’s face in. “Watch me do it again.”
Turning on his heel, Aiden left the guy enjoying his cigarette on a nice crisp day.
Aiden fled up the hill to the bunkhouse. A one room cabin that had served as the original homestead on the property, now it had a small kitchen and three bunkbeds shoved against the far wall. Between the beds, the moth-eaten couch, and a wobbling kitchen table there was barely any room to move but it served its purpose.
Hopping over the sagging plywood porch he left the front door open as he walked straight to his bunk. Because he and Isaac were the only two working the off season, he’d tossed his duffel bag on the bottom bunk while he slept on the top. Stooping beneath the bunk he didn’t waste any time shoving what few clothes he had into the bag. Just enough to get him between washings, his clothes and few toiletries easily fit in the bag.
He couldn’t stay here. Not anymore. Not when his past looked the same as it had that summer day, he’d let the door of his home hit him in the ass for the last time.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Everett and Billy since then. He’d seen them on the TV of every bar he’d stepped into when he got the urge to drink with someone besides Sugar. The world celebrating the small-town boy with an arm like a cannon and the man wearing his jersey in the stands. He never wanted to look, but by the bottom of his second glass he would be watching. Eyes misty, heart thudding in his ribcage, he’d remember all things he told himself he left behind the first time he stuck his thumb out over a sunbaked Texas highway.
Everett was still quiet, hedging around invasive questions when the reporters caught up to him after a game. Sweaty and stooping so his low drawl could caress the mic, it was less what he said and more the way his eyes unconsciously scanned the crowd. Always looking for him.In a sea of people there was only one person who mattered.
It was right on the line between tipsy and drunk when Aiden would start considering the what ifs.
What if he’d confessed to Everett?
What if he’d never befriended Billy?
What if he’d stayed?
The answers were no prettier than reality. Because even if he’d had the courage to confess to Everett, he wouldn’t have had the courage to stand with him. Not like Billy had.