6. Fallon
Chapter six
Fallon
“Jeb, follow me.” I swallow down a sigh, stepping across the threshold. Jeb tosses his jacket into the grass and follows. The empty foyer gives me a chill. Freshly painted light gray for the new homeowners, the warmth of my home died with Rhett. The old emerald walls of the foyer weren’t the only jewel-toned walls in the house to be rolled with Benjamin Moore’s Cement Gray .
Dark. Wet. Rainy.
The navy-blue entry runner, the shoe storage shelf, the paintings on the wall; they’re all packed away. I gesture toward the half bath down the corridor. “I probably don’t have a spare toothbrush, but I have mouth rinse in the medicine cabinet.”
“Thanks,” Jeb stammers as he shuts the door behind him. I can only imagine what he’s doing on the other side. It’s been a six-minute whirlwind for the both of us.
I step back, leaning against the wall. My Garmin buzzes on my wrist, a relaxation reminder. Easier said than done, watch . If it knew my situation, it would leave me and my elevated heart rate alone.
I’ve thought about this day more than I care to admit. How I would feel when being face-to-face with the man who killed Rhett. It was inevitable in a small-ish town. If it didn’t happen at the carnival or gas station, I would’ve gotten a glimpse of him across a parking lot. I just never thought he would show up on my doorstep on Easter morning on the day I was packing up to move.
I’d heard through the grapevine that Jeb had moved in with his parents and hadn’t been able to bear the thought of riding in an ambulance since the accident, but I truly didn’t think he’d be this bad.
He threw up in my flower bed, for fuck’s sake. He looks like the shell of a man he was in the pictures I saw of him.
I never blamed him for any part of the accident, I just wanted to know what he looked like. My friend Shay knows Jeb’s sister Sophie, so it was easy to find pictures of him online and kind of keep tabs on him from a distance.
Last summer, he was at the firehouse with a few of his coworkers, squinting in the light of day. He had one foot lazily propped on the brick wall behind him, his skin bronzed from the sun. A thick chocolate-colored mustache hid his top lip. The picture was one that could’ve been a fire department recruitment ad and a sparkling luster teeth whitening ad at the same time. Jeb smiled like he was laughing at someone off-camera. He seemed so full of life. So vibrant. Happy.
Today, his face is dusky and wax-like without any hints of ruddiness blooming around his cheekbones. His disheveled hair, nonconforming to any current style, could use a shear. Reedy and haggard in a pair of oversized khakis, I’m surprised his pants aren’t falling to his feet with the way his belt is working overtime. The wrinkles on his pink button-down complement the chestnut- and cocoa-striped tie that’s not even remotely satisfactorily tied. No Windsor or Double Windsor to be found on that man’s body.
In short, Jeb looks like hell. He looks like he died in that accident, too. One step away from death, maybe.
The door to the bathroom opens and Jeb appears, his hair slicked to the side, wet. He must’ve tried to freshen himself up a bit.
“I’m so sorry,” Jeb says again, head hanging to stare at his feet. I guess I’d be nervous to meet the fiancée of a man I killed, too—although I know for a fact it wasn’t his fault. I’ve talked to Jeb’s mom multiple times since the accident, but by the look of him, I don’t think he knows that.
“Jeb, come grab the other side of this hutch,” my brother yells from the family room before I can ask him why he’s here.
Today’s not the time to have a heart-to-heart, anyway. It’s Easter. I’m moving. It’s a lot of heavy emotions to process.
Vacating this house means I’m leaving yet another piece of us behind. Rhett tiled the master bathroom and installed ceiling fans in the hall. He painted the baseboards and all the trim. Rhett plumbed the new sink in the kitchen. The small deck off the back, Rhett designed and constructed the whole thing.
It’s hard as hell to leave the house his hands helped build.
Like, beyond hard.
We came here the night after we got engaged. It’s where we debated what we’d name our kids and whether we’d get a dog. We danced in the backyard under the stars. We hosted Mother’s Day brunches for both of our families.
The guys struggle to maneuver the hutch through the side door. I stare as Jeb moves one foot in front of the other, shuffling his ill-fitting pants out the door. A taller, younger Ozzy Osborne without the accent to match.
Gazing from afar has me bustling to the opposite side of the house out of self-preservation. If I analyze Jeb’s looks and mannerisms any longer, I’m bound to cry my eyes out. If he were a child, I’d assume he was neglected and desolate, isolated from civilization.
It takes being on the verge of a nervous breakdown to show up at my door on Easter morning, looking like hell, with no clear plan of attack.
In the spare bedroom, I laugh to myself, embracing the absurdity of Jeb in my house. This isn’t how I thought the morning would go when I woke up. Just like that crisp fall morning six months ago. I had no idea I’d wake up with Rhett for the last time. If he didn’t send Jeb to me this morning to break up the monotony, he surely is looking down, laughing his ass off.
“Are you okay, man?” I hear my brother ask, and the corners of my mouth rise because, clearly, the man is not okay.
“No, but I’m willing to help as long as you need,” he replies with zero confidence.
“Just promise me you won’t throw up again. I’m one of those people who vomit if they see other people vomit. Now grab that end of the couch. We might have to turn it sideways to get it through the door.”