Chapter 30 #2
Shit, that’s right. Davis told me last night that he’s getting his six-month chip at his AA meeting today. He asked if I’d like to go with him, and I said I would.
“I was supposed to go with him,” I groan with a mouth full of sandwich. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”
“Well, the meetings don’t usually start until one,” she says, checking the time on her phone. “And it’s just down the street. You’ve still got time if you want to make it.”
I nod and take a large bite of my sandwich to hurry through it, but then I remember I don’t have my car here. “That bike still in the shed?”
She nods. “That’s what Davis uses to get around when I’m at work. Do you want to talk about where your car is? How did you get here?”
I stare at my half-eaten sandwich, the shame spiral creeping up on me all over again.
“I got in trouble at school,” I say. “Big trouble.”
“Oh, baby.” She reaches across and squeezes my forearm. “What happened?”
I swallow. “I punched someone.”
Her brows lift. “That’s not like you.”
I huff out something like a laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Who was it?” she asks.
“Pierce Jamison.” I say.
Her expression hardens in a way I rarely see. “Jamison?”
I nod, and she sucks in a breath through her nose. For a second I brace myself for a lecture, but when she speaks, her voice is thick.
“Are you alright?”
I want to say yes, that I’ll be fine. I always manage to figure things out, and this is just another small obstacle. And hey, I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you and Davis since he got out of rehab. Now I can help more around the house, and…
I guess my expression and lack of answer is enough.
“Oh, honey.” She pushes back from the table, comes around to my side, and pulls my head gently against her soft stomach like she used to when I was little and had a nightmare. Her hand strokes the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry everything has been so hard.”
Tears prick again. I squeeze my eyes shut.
She keeps talking, fingers combing through my hair.
“I’ve spent a lot of years wishing I’d done things differently,” she admits.
“That I’d moved us away when your daddy died.
That I’d gotten you boys out of this town, and out from under those people’s eyes.
But I was so lost when he passed. And then the harder things got, the harder it was to think past just surviving. ”
I sit up enough to look at her. “I don’t blame you,” I say fiercely. “All of this is on me. I threw the punch. I knew it was stupid, and I did it anyway.”
“I can only imagine how bad it must have been if you finally flew off the handle,” she says, giving me way too much credit. “How bad is it?”
“As of right now, I’m suspended indefinitely. But it’s likely that the Jamison’s will push for expulsion. I’ll be lucky if there aren’t criminal charges.” The word tastes like ash. “Either way, I’ll probably lose my scholarship, and it won’t matter anyway.”
Her hand curls around my shoulder, squeezing the muscle there.
“We’ll deal with that if or when it comes to it,” she says.
“One thing at a time. Finish your sandwich and call your brother, see if he can come back and pick us up. I’d like to go, too, now that you’re up.
We’ll figure out the rest after the holiday. ”
I nod, my throat tight.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask in a voice too small for my size and age. “I don’t want to turn mine on yet.”
“Of course, baby,” she says immediately, sliding her phone across the table.
The phone rings a few times before Davis picks up. I hear sirens and immediately stiffen.
“Mom, don’t panic,” is the first thing he says, which of course makes me want to do exactly that.
My heart stops. “What?”
Mom’s eyes go wide. She mouths, What is it?
I slap the phone on speaker and set it between us. “Davis, where are you? What’s happening.” I demand.
There’s muffled noise on the other end. Davis’s voice shifts, like he’s talking to someone else.
“I wasn’t trespassing, officer,” he says, calm but firm.
“All I did was knock on the door and ask to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Jamison. They didn’t even ask me to leave or anything. They just called the police.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. He went to the Jamisons’ house? What was he thinking?
“Are you being arrested?” Mom asks, outraged.
Davis sighs. “I don’t think so? I don’t know. I haven’t done anything to warrant getting arrested, but there’s an officer here that needs to ask me some questions. I’ll call you back.”
“Let me talk to him,” Mom insists.
There’s some shuffling, and then an unfamiliar voice comes on the line. “Ma’am, this is Officer Grant with Colson Creek PD—”
“My son is not a criminal, nor is he dangerous or anything else those awful people surely accused him of,” Mom cuts in, her voice shaking but strong.
“He is in recovery. He is trying to live his life right. If he knocked on that door, it was to talk, not to cause trouble. Please tell me you are not arresting him for asking for a conversation.”
“No, ma’am,” the officer says quickly. “We’re not arresting him. We just got a call about a disturbance, and we’re required to respond and make sure everyone is safe. Mr. Miller is cooperating. We just have a few questions to clear everything up.”
Mom takes a deep breath, and Davis comes back on the line. “I’m fine, Mom,” he says nonchalantly, like this is all a mild inconvenience instead of a nightmare.
“I’m sure you are. It’ll take me five minutes to walk there. Please don’t leave until I get there. I’d very much like to talk to Officer Grant some more.”
She hangs up before he can argue, grabs her purse and jacket from the hook by the back door, and slips her feet into her sneakers.
“Give me two seconds to get some pants,” I tell her, moving towards my room.
“It’d be better if you stay,” she says. “Lord knows if they see you there, they’ll cause a fuss about that, too. I just want to make sure your brother is handling things alright.”
“What if—”
“Stay. Here.” There’s no room for argument in her tone. “Get dressed and be ready for us to pick you up so we can head to the meeting.”
I’m used to being strong. To sucking it up. To taking hits and laughing them off. Right now I feel like a kid again, small and scared and full of anxiety overall all the things that could go wrong.
I nod my agreement even though I don’t like it. She’s out the door and power-walking down the driveway in moments.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a full minute, ears straining for any sign of sirens, my brain conjuring worst-case scenarios like it’s on commission.
What if they decide Davis violated some probation term we don’t know about? What if the Jamison’s embellish the story, as they’re known to do? What if Pierce’s parents want their pound of flesh and it’s easier to start with the Miller who has a record?
What if this pushes Davis too far? What if a night in a holding cell is all it takes to knock his feet out from under him and send him back into the spiral he just climbed out of?
What if I’ve ruined everything again?
I pace.
From the kitchen to the living room to the front door and back, wearing a path into the thin carpet. I even consider turning my phone on and calling Mom to make sure everything’s okay. According to the clock, it’s only been three minutes, but it feels like three hours.
I imagine Davis in handcuffs. I imagine Mom arguing with a cop twice her size and getting arrested, too.
I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Jamison watching from behind their picture window, clutching their pearls while their lawyer drafts a statement about ongoing harassment by an unstable individual with a history of substance abuse.
My fists clench. I want to hit something, which is exactly what got me here in the first place. And everyone thinks it was uncharacteristic of me.
A knock at the door has my heart jumping into my throat.
Instead of answering it, I immediately start overthinking who it could be. If it were the police, it’d be a harder knock. Maybe an announcement of their intentions.
But why would the police be here? Unless the Jamisons’ really are charging me to the fullest extent of the law.
The knock comes again, and I shake my head, trying to rattle my brain into its usual level of function again.
Just answer it, idiot.
I cross the living room in a few long strides, wrap my damp palm around the doorknob, and fling it open.
Beck.
Lincoln fucking Beckett is standing on my porch in a dark coat and jeans, his hair mussed by the wind, his eyes wide and bright and so painfully familiar, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Brody.” He says my name like he doesn’t quite believe I’m real. Like he’s not the one who showed up out of nowhere, at my childhood home, without notice or invitation.
All the air in my lungs leaves me in a rush. I think I might pass out.