Chapter 38
Chapter
There is a tiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. One we never use because it’s cramped, has terrible wallpaper, and is missing multiple floorboards. The room is on our long list of things to get to.
I know my mom wants to knock down a wall that would connect it to a slightly larger bedroom and make the combined space into a craft utopia for Marge. But other repairs always get in the way, and the crafting supplies stay tucked in plastic bins in the garage.
Until tonight.
When I get home from George’s, I read over the texts my moms have sent me.
Mom: I’m not sure what that was at Cornfield’s, but I hope you’re okay. Text us if you need anything.
Marge: Is something up with you and Darla? Or you and George? If you need to talk, let me know.
Mom: Marge and I are going to trivia night at the coffee shop. We’ll be out late unless you want us to come home. Whatever you need.
Then there’s the note pinned to the fridge that they must have left before heading to Cornfield’s.
Please check water heater. Hot water is running out quickly again.
Grumps and I are alone in the house, and he is content to nap in his chair. I’m glad Mom and Marge are at trivia. My mind is too mixed up to talk to anyone.
And a water heater that keeps blowing the breaker isn’t helping matters. I’ve been adjusting the temperature to keep it from tripping. I know what’s wrong. What’s been wrong for months.
We need a new one.
I can’t YouTube DIY my way through this repair like I’ve been able to with so many others. And I know exactly how much it’s going to cost to replace it. Soon I’m going to have to write a check for a thousand dollars.
Mom can’t be taking cold showers, especially when winter comes back around. Her health is still fragile.
“You can’t afford it.” George’s voice plays in my mind. I know he was only referring to flight instruction. And I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me. But I’m still gutted.
That phrase applies to every aspect of my life.
Instead of heading to the basement to stare at the water heater I know I can’t fix, I stride into the garage, grab an armful of old sheets, eye protection, a face mask, and a sledgehammer.
I need to smash something.
When the sheets are spread on the floor below the wall on both sides and my face is covered, I heft the hammer, the wooden handle cool against my palms.
I swing.
You can’t afford flight lessons.
I swing.
You can’t afford to quit Beefies.
I swing.
You can’t afford your mother’s dream home.
I swing.
You can’t afford for your mom to get sick again.
I swing.
You can’t afford to tell your brother the truth.
I swing again and again, fury and pain fueling my arms until my muscles shake from overuse and there’s a gaping hole with ragged edges revealing a room beyond. The hammer thunks to the floor, and I pant hard, my mask keeping the humid air tight against my face.
Disregarding the risk of squirrels searching for any vulnerability to storm our house, I stalk over to the window, heave it open, and rip off my protective coverings so I can suck in a lungful of fresh night air.
“Gotta say, that was impressive. I didn’t think you’d stop.”
I whip around to find Shawn in the doorway, shoulder leaning on the jamb, delighted smile on his cheery face.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is too harsh, but he doesn’t let it bother him.
“You weren’t picking up your phone, so I called George. He said you went home, and he sounded all mopey about it. I figured something went down, and I wanted to check on you.”
Damn it. That’s so fucking sweet. Because that’s Shawn. He can’t help himself, and he definitely can’t help that I feel like a shitty sister every time I’m reminded of what a good guy he is.
“We got in a fight,” I admit. “I think I hurt his feelings. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing to me?”
“Because he’s your best friend.”
“So?” Shawn shrugs. “He’s a big boy. And as long as you still want to be with him, he’ll get over it.” He nudges a splintered piece of wood with the toe of his shoe. “I mean, the guy has been in love with you for forever.”
Forever? “What?”
“You really did some damage to this wall.”
“Shawn, focus. What do you mean George has been in love with me for forever?”
My brother bobs his head like he’s weighing his words.
“Okay, maybe not in love. But crushing hard. Ever since that first night he met you. I guess he’s into girls who steal For Sale signs.
” He chuckles and steps forward to bump my shoulder with his, but I’m too befuddled to react.
“Never understood why he didn’t make a move.
He couldn’t during the marriage, of course.
But even with that, he told me if you ever asked about him, I could tell you the truth.
That’s when I knew he had it bad, because I was one of three people who knew what Elle and he were doing. ”
This new knowledge swamps my brain.
It was George.
George was the long-haired guy who smelled like weed and drove a Scooby-Doo van.
Reeling, I try to remember more of that encounter, but it’s a blur of grief.
Still, now that Shawn has said it, I think I can see it.
The steady hands on the steering wheel…the strong jaw on a stoic face…
the overall calm presence that radiated from the driver’s seat.
Our first meeting wasn’t at the housewarming party; it was in the van that George lived in for a stretch of time. He was the one who drove me to this house.
He watched me stalk across the overgrown yard and grab the sign. He heard me scream all my rage and pain at the sky. And he drove me back to the apartment Mom, Marge, and I shared as Shawn held me and I held that sign.
And apparently that was…attractive?
But he didn’t do anything. Didn’t ask Shawn for my number, or swing by the house he knew I was going to buy, or even tell me his name.
I mean, I know why George stayed away from me all this time. Because of my dad’s threat. But I thought he was just being a decent guy. Trying not to make waves.
But if Shawn has it right…George has wanted me all along.
And Karl Newton’s lie about cutting me off kept us apart.
I’m so tired of lies. So tired of smiling and pretending and keeping the peace.
Darla’s voice comes to me like a combination of devil and angel on my shoulder.
“Tell the truth. Blow everything up. Sometimes what’s left after the chaos is better.”
“I don’t have the money to pay you back,” I blurt. “Not all of it, anyway.” The number in my savings account is large for me but pathetically small in light of what I owe him. Medical care paired with a mortgage is not cheap. “I won’t for a while.”
Shawn turns to me, his face sad. “You’re not taking the trust money?”
The trust. Ha. What a funny word to use for that. So much trust Shawn put in his father doing something—anything—for the other kid he sired.
Now I’m going to stomp on my sweet brother’s rosy glasses.
You could lie, a panicked voice whispers in my mind. Tell him you’re too proud to take it. He’d understand that. He knows you and Karl don’t get along. He wouldn’t be mad at you, and he could go on loving his dad without knowing the toxic nature of the man.
The option is tempting.
But as I stare into Shawn’s open face, I think back on how he gazed at Darla with adoration.
“You’re so honest. I love it,” he’d said, like it was the highest compliment he could pay.
If the truth is what Shawn wants, then I’ll give it to him. I owe him that much, at least.
“There is no trust fund for me. There never was.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then shakes his head. “What?”
“I lied.” I stare at my plaster-covered hands, the white dust caking in the lines of my palms. “About being able to pay you back with the trust money. We had too many bills, and I panicked, and I needed you to give me a loan. You agreed so easily. Because you believed I’d have plenty of cash eventually.
Because I told you I would.” Because I deceived you.
Just like everyone else who wanted your money.
“But I don’t. I’ve got three thousand in my account, and I’ll write you a check for that.
Well, for two thousand nine hundred, because I think I need to keep at least one hundred in the bank account so it doesn’t close.
And then we can work out payments. I can do those electronically, so you don’t have to see me again.
” My eyes are itchy, and I realize it’s because tears are leaking out of them at a surprisingly fast rate.
My hands are too dirty for me to wipe them away, so I have to let them overflow and fall.
“Wait. Hell, just wait a second, Beth.” Shawn digs his fingers into his hair, the move aggressive with his agitation. “Slow down. Back to the beginning.”
“I lied to you—”
“Not that. You don’t have a trust?” He turns disbelieving eyes on me, the beginning of hurt showing in the depths.
This is what I’ve been avoiding the last few years. Causing my brother true pain.
I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my worn jeans and bow my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller. “No. There’s no trust fund.”
“But Dad would’ve…” He shakes his head. “You’re his daughter.”
A bleak snort sneaks out before I can swallow back the sound. After a centering breath, I try to be gentle as I unravel the image my brother has of our father.