12. Briggs
brIGGS
I aimlessly stare into my family room, perfectly furnished with a gray sectional, a big-ass TV over a wood-burning fireplace, hardwood floors adorned with rugs I didn’t pick out, and quiet.
Unadulterated, pure silence.
It’s not a sound I’m used to. My ears are accustomed to filled stadiums with loud crowds and drunk guys trying to heckle players. The smell of fresh grass and my cleats crushing sunflower seeds while guys belch, spit, and cuss out the opponent’s pitcher.
But standing in this house, one I bought over five years ago, it’s not what I dreamt of at all.
It was supposed to be, with Layla in it.
The bedroom was supposed to smell like her. I should hear her baking up a storm with whatever recipe she was inspired by on Pinterest and be able to touch her whenever I want in the privacy of our own home.
But she lives in a small two-bedroom within the throngs of town, and I’m surprised her Uncle Ben allowed her to move out at all. Especially since he still obviously has a chokehold on her life when it comes to me.
And maybe it’s for the best.
Living in Magnolia Ridge has its not-so-good memories, and maybe I wasn’t supposed to come back here at all.
Maybe I’ve held on too long.
Or maybe you should quit being a whiny-ass bitch and stop complaining.
Inhaling, I stride for the front door when several hard and short knocks rap along it, and I pause.
I definitely wasn’t expecting visitors. I’m on my way to the Summer Festival to meet Adeline and Everly while they man the gaming tent today, and I promised I’d help.
For a second.
So, bullshitting with a neighbor—not that I have any because I’m on the outskirts of Magnolia Ridge with ten acres, so no one could hear Layla scream while I’m fucking her—isn’t on my to-do list for today.
Fucking Layla Melrose, that’s always on the agenda.
Ripping my door open with a bit of irritation and subtle I’m-not-in-the-fucking-mood-for-small-talk, I find a man standing on my wooden porch about to knock on the damn door again.
The impatience is lost on me until it isn’t.
Because when I pull the guy fully into view, I’m sorry that I had.
Tan cowboy hat, dark brown eyes, and a full beard and mustache of gray and brown, I stare at my father standing on the other side of my threshold, and my fingers instantly itch to slam the damn door in his fucking face.
“Briggs,” he greets in his authoritative tone that only speaks that my presence is being a damn fucking nuisance to him. “I was half-expectin’ you to be—”
“Did you get fuckin’ lost?” I upbraid because he’s either strung out or his balls dropped in the last decade, where he thought this would be a really good idea for him to show up on my doorstep.
“Did you?” he shoots back, brows pinned for the fuck knows what? “You haven’t stopped by the house.”
“What house?”
The lines on his face deepen. “My house. My son comes home and doesn’t say hello to his father. I taught you better than that, son.”
Taught me better than that.
Was that a statement?
Did I just imagine the last two decades of my life where he wasn’t around me, he ignored me, then didn’t give two shits or a thank you that I saved his home?
Nah.
I’m recalling everything just right.
“I didn’t have a father,” I volley back to him because he can kiss my entire ass if he believes, for a minute, I’m going to forget everything he’s done to me. “I do remember, however, that I wasn’t welcome in that damn house, and you were worthless as shit to me.”
This fucker has the damn nerve to roll his eyes at me.
So, our balls did drop, eh?
“Son, we need to talk.”
An unimpressed scoff escapes my lips because this is rich.
And not in the millions of dollars chillin’ in my bank account right now but the audacity that’s hangin’ out on my front porch right now.
“I’m good.” I step forward, but he doesn’t move a damn inch to give me space to get around him.
That’s fine.
I just broke some dude’s arm days ago. I can move a middle-aged prick out of my way.
Bumping into him, because I’m not going to be cornered in my own house, I close the door behind me and round his frame.
“Briggs,” he calls out after me as I take the first step. “We can’t go on like this forever.”
“I can.” My feet hit the gravel, and I make my way to my truck. “Don’t come here again.”
“This isn’t fair to your sisters. They’ve been playin’ between us for years.”
“Your fault.”
“Briggs,” he carps out, sounding a bit closer than the porch. “Be a man and face this.”
Face this.
It’s not because I’m scared to talk about feelings or the simple fact that I haven’t seen him in over nine years, but that I have nothing to say to him.
Nothing productive.
Nothing enlightening or nice to say.
He seriously has some Alzheimer’s-like symptoms to show up on my doorstep and demand I speak to him, but that’s a fucking Baby Boomer for you.
“You’re not gonna win her back, son. Not with the way you’ve been actin’.”
My hand freezes midair to my door handle, a mixture of disappointment and fury seeping through my entire frame.
I already know who he’s talking about.
Even though he didn’t follow along with me my entire childhood, Magnolia Ridge filled in the blanks for him.
It didn’t matter to the public that we never officially dated when Layla and I were in high school; we kept that part hidden well enough.
But it was my sister, Adeline, who kept him well-informed of my career, interests, and future plans.
Future plans that included and still include Layla Jean.
“Is this the part where you give me fatherly advice?” I crane my head over and give him the attention he doesn’t deserve. However, if it’ll speed this conversation up, I’m more than happy to give it to him. “Or the moment where we begin to start anew?”
His expression, for once, toward me isn’t void of any love or devotion that any father would shed toward his son.
No, it looks hopeful.
And it’s misplaced as hell.
“I was plannin’ on it, yeah.”
Misplaced as hell.
Yanking my truck door open, I climb inside and shut the door without another word.
It’s merciful, really, because I think I would have preferred my father to ignore me and not say a thing instead of bitching at me to be a man at eight years old. I was supposed to forget my mother’s death and act like she didn’t exist.
But she did.
In every beer he drank at night, he tossed to the garage floor.
In the papers he signed when he took a second mortgage out on the home because he got fired for being drunk on the job.
And in every look he tossed my way.
I was the reasoning he needed to blame his wife’s death on.
I’ll still be that for him.
Because he’s dead to me.