Page 37 of The Bronze Garza

I don’t think about how ridiculous it is that I’m here in this man’s house just so my parents can have peace of mind. I don’t think about how pointless and directionless my life has become—a life my dear father is so determined to protect, when really he would’ve been better off if I’d died in that hit-and-run.

Nothing makes sense anymore and I no longer care to understand. I’m just existing, using whatever life I have left, flitting from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.

Death doesn’t even scare me anymore. And I wonder if this is the point Kristie was at when she made the decision she did. A place of fearlessness and numbness. A place where terror has no bite.

When the prospect of death no longer scares you, it’s a thrilling fucking feeling.

A feeling of utter and totalfreedom.

What a beautiful bliss.

ChapterTen

“A thriller happened?”

Lyra

After I’m done unpacking, I slipin my earbuds and wander out of the room. I can’t understand why anyone would want to vacation at home, but what do I know about men.

Linkin’ Park’sIn The Endblasts in my ears as I drift through the house, peeking inside rooms and outside windows. The kitchen is very industrial, with exposed brick, copper appliances, and dark-wood cupboards. While it looks amazing on its own, it doesn’t go with the rest of the “woodsy” style of the house. Either the man built this inharmonious place himself, or the designer had a serious case of ADHD.

The fridge and pantry are stocked with Lyra-friendly foods. Nice. I wash some cherry tomatoes in a small bowl then snack on them while I go in search of Mr. Grumpy.

I find him in the basement—or, from the looks of it, a woodworking shop. Tools hang on the walls, strange machines propped here and there, shelves stacked with all kinds of wood, unfinished furniture pieces littered about.

A large, wooden table stands in the middle of the room, and that’s where he is, sanding away on a piece of wood. He glances up under his brows as I meander into the room, brief and dismissive, then returns his attention to the task at hand.

“Is this your side-hustle?” I ask as I examine an odd-looking saw.

He doesn’t answer.

I pop a cherry-tomato into my mouth. “Do you intend to ignore me the entire time I’m here?”

“I’ll take you to Barefoot Runaway in a bit.”

I click my tongue. “I’ve not even been here an hour and you want to get rid of me already.”

“You agreed to that part of the deal, didn’t you?”

I turn away from a wall of tools and move to the table. Across from him, I prop against it then bite into another tomato, licking the squirt of juices from my lips.

His gaze flicks to me, drops to my mouth, then back down to the wood he’s sanding.

“What are you making?” I ask him.

“Side table.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

I hold the bowl of tomatoes out to him.

He shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

I shrug and pick up another one, and notice his green gaze flicks up just in time to watch me slip it into my mouth.

Hmm. Interesting.