9. Jeb
Chapter nine
Jeb
I burst through the heavy metal door at the bottom of the four cement stairs and slam the door, running to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, splash my face with water, and take a good look at myself in the old beveled-edged mirror. Raising my arm to tousle my too-long hair, I get a solid whiff of the stank oozing from my armpits. Fuck.
I hugged her for a solid five minutes, smelling like a teenage boy after gym class. I know I stopped caring about myself. Hell, it’s clear to the world.
I look around the basement, feeling sorrier for myself. It’s atrocious. There are three dirty cups on the counter, two on the end tables, and one on the floor. It’s not just cups, either. There’s plates, bowls, utensils, clothes, blankets. A half-eaten bag of Fritos discarded on the couch, junk mail piling up by the door, a singular shoe strewn about with its match nowhere to be found. It’s deplorable.
I squish an ant walking around the side of a dirty plate. That’s it. I’m done living amongst all of this filth.
On a whim, I grab my phone and log in to my Target account. I click on my previously purchased items and add deodorant, shampoo, and body wash. Last ordered, September 24. The date, listed in bold font, laughs at me. Shit. How long have I been showering with only water? I rub my hand through my hair and search for a pair of hair clippers, too.
On second thought, I place my online order then look for a barbershop out of town, finding one thirty minutes away. Yes, it would be easy to go back to James, the man who has cut my hair since I was in high school, but instead, I make an appointment for tomorrow morning at a random place in Jenkins.
My parents’ dog traipses back and forth across their hardwood floor right above me, and I briefly contemplate walking upstairs and filling them in on my day. Not yet . Mentally, it’s been enough for one day, and I know they’ve been worried about me for a long time. I’m pretty sure they had me on some sort of suicide watch after I was discharged from the hospital. For weeks, someone was with me at all times, it seemed, with one or the other taking shifts sleeping on the couch down here.
I lie in bed, ready to replay all that went wrong with Fallon and her brother, but instead, my mind goes blank, and I fall fast asleep for the first time in a long time.
My body exhausted. My brain muddled.
At five on the dot, I place an order for three pizzas. I don’t know Fallon’s favorite toppings, so I get the pepperoni sausage for Corbin, half pineapple and half cheese, and another pizza topped with half pepperoni and half mushroom.
At 5:15 I park in the end spot, the largest in the lot, the one I always take if it’s open. It’s my first time at Schettino’s since before. An Italian smell wafts through the parking lot. I close my eyes for a brief second and inhale the scent, a delicious and gooey mixture of melted cheese, cooked dough, and oregano. Beni at the counter smiles at me, and even though there’s a bit of pity lacing the gesture, I know she means well.
She knows me, and she knows the whole story. As a bachelor, I ate here a lot—twice a week, at least. Schettie’s is the best pizzeria in town. As a child, I’d order the Schettie’s Spaghetti from their kids’ menu every Friday night.
“Hey, Jeb. Good to see you,” she says softly, ruefully. I stare ahead and hand my card to her, not bothering to return her greeting. I want to, but I don’t want to start crying, so this is the best I can do. Stay silent. No tears.
She hands the three pizzas over the counter, then hands my card back. The airplane on the front of the card laughs at me. Racking up rewards for not a damn thing. I glance at Beni. I see it in her eyes. Sadness. Compassion. Support.
“Thanks.” My voice is a raspy whisper.
A wave of emotion flows through me as I carry the stack of pizzas out through the red door, welcoming the fresh air into my lungs.
I clench the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, practicing a breathing technique I learned in the hospital. Four-second inhale, four-second exhale, six-second inhale, six-second exhale. My face basks in the sun, my shoulders relax, and finally, my hands follow suit.
Now to focus on helping Corbin get Fallon moved into her new house. Shit. I don’t even know where it is. I never asked for her address.
I make a split-second decision to head toward her old house in hopes that she’s there to grab the boxes that wouldn’t fit in her car yesterday. I signal my blinker, waiting for an opening in traffic.
Unintentionally, driving has been the one thing I’ve been able to do without much thought since the accident. It should probably be the opposite. I should be able to do anything but drive. But I’m a cautious as hell driver, always on full alert.
I turn the wheel on my dad’s old Ford, heading for the river. Since the accident, I have tried to take slower back roads, avoiding Route 85 at all costs. I could get there quicker the other way, but that’s a trigger waiting to strike.
I take a left onto River Road, making my way back past my parents’ house. At the stop sign, two kids play on the playground at the corner of River and Beaver. One day, they might end up killing a man, too. They just don’t know it yet. All jovial and exuberant. I was once like that. Now I’m picking up pizzas for the fiancée of the man I killed.
Life is… interesting.
The car across the intersection makes a left turn, and I continue through the four-way stop. I glance at the clock. Fallon’s old house is about ten minutes from my parent’s house, and I’m going to be late. I don’t particularly like being late. If you’re on time, you’re late is the fire department’s motto. But ever since the first high-speed accident call I took (before I could even drive), I made a vow never to speed.
The houses lining the road begin to thin out as the road winds to the right and narrows as it edges closer to the river, leaving the incorporated town limits. Before I ascend over the old truss bridge, a flash of neon pink in my periphery has me spotting Fallon along with Corbin in the front yard of Mrs. Montgomery’s house. I think Rose Montgomery’s in a nursing home now—or she was talking about it before the accident. I haven’t kept up with her since I stopped riding the ambulance, taking her to the hospital every other week.
I coast a little farther, no time to punch the brake and pull into her driveway. Sliding one hand out to steady the pizzas, my palm warms as I veer into the next gravel cut-off. Spinning the wheel with one hand, I maneuver my truck around the bumpy path.
The smell of the pizza has my stomach growling, but the thought of eating dinner with Fallon and her brother nauseates me. I try not to think about it as I turn the radio up, shutting out the noise in my head for a few seconds before I turn toward Mrs. Montgomery’s.
When I park the truck, ramping up to the curb, Fallon and Corbin are standing in the front yard. Fallon’s dirty-blond hair is thrown atop her head in a messy bun, little wisps around her face blowing in the breeze. One hand is on her hip, and the other is motioning toward the boxes to Corbin on her left. She turns her head at the sound of the engine turning off, and when she sees me, she smiles.
Something about the smile on her face makes me want to do better as a person. It’s warm and inviting. Fallon doesn’t owe me anything, and she certainly doesn’t have to be so generous, but I don’t think she’s faking it. She’d have made some sort of an excuse for me to stay home today if that was the case. Instead, she’s heading for my truck with a smile on her face.