Page 7

Carson

I t’s been six months since my dad died. But it’s been nearly two decades since I laid eyes on the asshole—or stepped foot in his house.

When he passed, saying I was shocked doesn’t even scratch the surface of how I felt finding out he left me the house and the life insurance payout.

I didn’t even know he had a policy. The man was always a tightwad—wouldn’t spend a dime, not even when his kid needed a new coat in the middle of winter.

Part of me wanted to torch the place. Toss his money inside, light a match, and piss on the ashes. Not once during the eighteen years I lived with him did I have one good memory in that house. Not a single one.

The choice to sell the house instead of burning it wasn’t my idea. After a talk with Cal and Wilder, they convinced me that the trouble caused by burning it wouldn’t be worth it in the long run. I might as well get some money for it and be done with it. Let the bad memories finally fade away.

Driving out here now has stirred a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach all morning. I don’t really know what the feeling is, and I don’t care to dig around and figure it out, either.

I would have preferred Wren to come with me, but I know she’s busy.

If I had asked her or told her I wanted some company, I know she would have been here at the drop of a hat.

That’s just the kind of person she is. It kills me when people take advantage of that part of her.

But I’m not going to be another person who takes from her when she’s already running on empty.

Hopefully, now that she’s leaving the city, those women she works with will stop asking her to do every damn thing under the sun.

And I’m not just talking about babysitting or covering shifts at the hospital.

They have her running errands, picking up stuff, bringing them food on her day off—things they could’ve easily done themselves.

Hell, they could’ve ordered delivery or walked down to the cafeteria.

But no, they called Wren. And she did it, of course.

Justified it by saying she was “helping them save money.” I bit my tongue then, like I always do.

It’s one thing if it’s a family member or a close friend asking for those things, but a coworker? That’s all they are. Those women are not her friends. Anytime Wren invites them somewhere or tries to reach out, they blow her off. Every damn time. It really pisses me off.

Feeling the need for another cup of coffee before heading to the house, I pull into the parking lot at Mel’s Place—the old diner we used to frequent as kids. The Becketts and I came here anytime one of us had even a nickel to our name.

Glancing around, I see the place hasn’t changed much. The red siding could use a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise, it looks the same.

When I walk up to the front door, I spot the “For Sale” sign hanging in the window. Peering inside, I wonder if they’re even open since I don’t see a single person at any of the tables or booths. I don’t see any hours posted, but I give the door a tug anyway.

“Mornin’,” a familiar voice greets as the door creaks open. It’s raspier now than it was all those years ago, but I can still recognize that thick accent.

“Mornin’, Paul,” I return the greeting as I step inside.

The old man pops his head up from behind the counter, where he grabs a handful of napkins and silverware and places them on the white countertop. His squint sharpens as he gets a better look.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I ain’t seen you kids in ages. How ya been, Carson?” He rounds the counter and gives me a solid pat on the shoulder.

He really doesn’t look all that different from the way he did when we were kids. He still has his round glasses and a thick mustache over his lip. It’s just gray now, and the hair on his head is a little thinner, but otherwise, same old Paul.

“Doin’ alright. Just wanna grab a coffee for the road.” Small talk has never been my forte.

He nods and turns toward the machines on the back wall. “Alright, just give me a minute to get a fresh pot goin’, and I can get ya on your way.” He pats my shoulder once more and heads back around the counter.

I watch as he scoops the coffee grounds into the machine and presses a few buttons. The strong, heavenly aroma that flows out is already helping me feel calmer.

“I’m tryin’ to recall the last time I saw you around here,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter while the pot brews.

I shrug. “Not sure.” That’s a lie. I know damn well when it was—the day Wren and I walked here for sundaes. She added peanuts to hers, as she always did. Two bites in, she dropped that Sundae onto the red dirt as she struggled to breathe.

“ Hmm . Well,” Paul says, pulling me from the nightmare I’m reliving in my mind. “I know I spotted you around town a time or two, but I’m too slow these days to catch up and say hello.” He chuckles. “It’s good to see ya again, kid.”

“Yeah. You too.” My weight shifts from foot to foot as I watch the slow-ass coffee machine sputter out drops of liquid into the carafe.

Feeling uneasy, I bring up the sign in the window. “You retirin’ already?”

He sighs, then nods, coming to stand a bit closer while we wait for the coffee to brew. “Yeah. It’s time to hang up the hat. Wife thinks she wants me around more. We’ll see how Mel feels about that after a couple of weeks,” he jokes.

He studies me for a beat. “Y’know, I heard you went to culinary school… You ever think about openin’ your own place?”

“Uh...” My face does something stupid as he walks back around the counter. “Not really,” I lie again, shaking my head.

Have I thought about it? Of course. But I don’t know if this is the right time or place for me.

“Alright, just thought I’d ask.” He slides the hot cup of coffee in my direction with a smirk. “You need cream or sugar?”

“Nope.” I reach for my wallet, and he begins to shake his head.

“On the house.”

“You can’t give it away or?—”

“Or what? I’ll go out of business?” He smirks as he begins to roll the silverware in the white napkins.

I huff a laugh and take a swig from the strong, black coffee—the robust flavor helping me wake even more after an early and long morning drive.

The entire time I’m driving through the rest of the small town, I keep thinking about the possibility he put in my mind—opening my own place.

Why shouldn’t I finally do it? I’ve got the money my dad left behind, plus the bit I’ve saved up over the years. I’ve always said I wanted to do something meaningful with it. Maybe this is that something.

The idea terrifies me. But at the end of the day, if what you’re doing doesn’t make you want to show up everyday, what’s the damn point?

I love cooking. Always have. But I’m tired of working under someone else, following someone else’s rules. Maybe it’s time for more freedom—to take some real ownership over my life.

Mel’s Place seems like such a crazy idea, though. This town is small. Keeping traffic might be difficult. And I can’t ignore the painful memory tied to this building.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe it’s time to strip out the old and make room for something better.

I pull into the gravel driveway on Meadow Street and hesitate before turning off the ignition. The house before me makes that feeling of dread return tenfold. The memories begin to flood in, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.

I thought I should come out and check on the place, get things cleaned up a bit so the realtor could list it for sale soon. I’ve waited long enough. It’s time to bury this hellhole in the past where it belongs.

Taking a deep breath, I push open my truck door with a rough exhale.

One quick look inside, and the memories are already tearing through me like a damn storm—my dad screaming at me, slamming me into the wall where the hole still gapes in the drywall.

The taped-up window from the time he threw a plate at my mom and missed.

He claimed he intentionally missed. I’m more inclined to believe his aim sucked as much as he did—especially when he was drunk.

He was always drunk.

My dad was violent in every sense of the word—physically and mentally. That’s why I preferred to spend as much time as I possibly could with the Becketts.

When Cal’s mom got sick, I assumed they’d push me away, wanting their family time.

But instead, they pulled me in even closer, as if I were one of them.

They were such a tight-knit family and always expressed their love for each other.

It felt strange to my young mind, but I couldn’t help but crave it.

Cal and Wilder were always the brothers I never had.

We were inseparable. Wild was younger, but he still did everything he could to tag along with us wherever we went, which Cal sometimes hated—but I never minded.

Kid was funny. And when he got us laughing, it helped us forget the shitty situations we had to go home to.

Different kinds of shit, sure. But still shit.

Wren stopped hanging around as much when I was there after their mom died.

She stuck close to their dad, not wanting him to be alone.

Once he started going on fishing trips by himself, she’d spend more time with us.

I may have always seen Cal and Wild as my brothers, but Wren was never a sister to me. She was my friend.

And then as we got older, she felt like…more. And that terrified the living hell out of me.

I tried to shut those feelings down, told my teenage brain it was wrong, that I shouldn’t see her that way.

But it was fucking pointless. I was done for the minute I realized how often she made me laugh.

How her pale blue eyes sparked when she smiled.

How even on her worst days, she found a reason to be kind.