Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amber
It takes a few good shoulder thrusts to get my door open after the lawn crash mishap, but it eventually gives. I dust myself off and glance back at the splintered wood beams where mailboxes used to be. The damage looks pretty well contained.
"Hey, miss," says a portly man walking toward me. He's of average height but above average weight, with fluffy brown hair, brown eyes, and dressed in athletic shorts, a mustard-stained sleeveless white T-shirt, and black flip flops. "Are you okay?" His concern seems genuine.
"Oh." I ponder what to say, considering the landscape behind me. "I'll be alright."
"I don't know about that miss," he says.
"You look like you're pretty shook up. I reckon the mailman's in for a little surprise.
" He looks me over, checking for signs of blood, concerned I may pass out.
Once convinced I'm not dying, he walks over to the car, grabs the mailbox imbedded in the windshield and says, "Well, looks like you got my last name already here on your window.
" Referring to the name 'Roberts' painted along the side of the box.
"Folks here know me as George. So, miss, who are you? "
"I'm Amber," I reply. "I sure am sorry about y—" It takes me a moment to process what he said. "Did you say your name is George?"
"I did indeed," he answers.
"George Roberts?" I clarify.
"Um, yeah, that's what I just." He pauses briefly, then asks, "Wait, why?"
"Why what?"
"I just got done telling you my name, and then you emphatically asked me if I just said my name is what my name is, as if you’re looking for something, or someone?" George isn’t that bright.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to startle you," I say, feeling compelled to apologize more. "As it turns out, I’m here to see you."
"You sure do have a funny way of putting things, miss,” he responds, puzzled.
"Please, call me Amber," I insist.
"Okay then, Amber," says George. "What exactly brings you to my humble home? You selling something? Religion? Politics? A self-cleaning turbo vacuum with built-in beer holder and ice cream scoop?"
"Haha." I can't help but laugh. "Well, Mr. Roberts," I say.
"Hey, hey, hey," George interrupts me. "If I'm supposed to be calling you Amber, you better plan on calling me George, and not mister. Mister was my daddy, well, more like my step-daddy, I think." He scratches his head, having confused himself again. "But, nevertheless, I'm just George."
"Okay then, just George," I say. "I'm here to speak to you about your brother, Declan."
Unsure of what to make of my statement, George takes a step back and waits before answering. "My brother Declan?" he asks. "What could you possibly want with him from me? Especially now?"
“Well, mist—” I catch myself and then say, “Well, George, if you wouldn’t mind, I have some questions I’d like to ask you. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”
George studies my eyes intently, searching for answers. “I, uh, suppose so,” he says. “Come on in.”
I follow him across his lawn and over his patio, and into the living room a few steps inside his house.
“Have a seat on the couch if you like,” he says, pointing to a fluffy, grayish sectional on a dark burgundy carpet. George’s place exudes a homely charm. “Can I get you anything to drink, Amber?” George asks while I settle in.
“No, thank you,” I reply. “I hope to take up as little of your time as possible.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, waltzing into his kitchen. “I’m grabbing a brewsky myself. It’s drinking time somewhere. Might as well be drinking time here too.” A few seconds later, he returns with a cold beer, pulls a wicker chair up to the coffee table, and plops down in the seat.
“So, Amber, what do you want with my brother?” he asks.
“Based on your frankness with me in your yard,” I say. “I’m guessing your brother has never told you about me.”
“What do you mean?” George asks, his brow furrowing.
“He’s my boyfriend, and he’s missing,” I say assertively.
“I don’t see how that’s possible, Amber,” George says, shaking his head. “I just don’t.”
“I’m sure it comes as a surprise,” I continue. “Just as I didn’t even realize Declan had any living family until very recently. He’s kept that part of his life secret—part of his past.”
“Okay, Amber,” he says, “I can see we’re on completely different pages here. Are you sure you came to the right George Roberts?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I answer. “You are the brother of Declan Angus Roberts, are you not?”
“I am,” George replies. “But, is there any chance there’s another George Roberts with a brother by that same name? Because I just don’t see how I can be who you’re looking for.”
“I got your name and phone number from a friend of Declan’s,” I explain. “Kent Lawson. Do you know him?”
“Yep,” George says. “Sure do. He was Declan’s best friend for the longest time. But, what’s that got to do with anything? I still don’t get why you’re here now asking me about Declan.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You should go see our mamma,” George says. “She lives not two blocks from here. I can give you her address. Then, I’m going to need you to go on your way.”
I begin to speak, “I don’t under—” but I’m cut off.
“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly. “I just won’t have any more of this conversation today.” He scribbles his mother’s name, address, and current phone number on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. “Take this and kindly get out of my house.”
I accept the small note and walk out of the house, scratching my head. The chat ended almost as soon as it started.
What just happened?
The front wheels of my car were destroyed in the crash.
In a fit of frustration, looking at the piece of paper George gave me, I make my way toward the other side of the neighborhood on foot.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Why would a stranger tell me anything?
I wonder what happened between Declan and George.
He clearly doesn’t know about me. It’s weird.
Whatever it was, it must have been bad. Because he showed no signs of concern with the knowledge his brother is missing, at best, or worse.
Please don’t be worse.