Chapter Forty-One
THE HOUSE IS MUCH LIKE Andrew: in shambles.
The gutters hang on by an invisible thread, the front patio is covered in a thick layer of red dirt, and sharp tree limbs threaten to pierce through a side window.
The sun slowly rises before the house, shining on the peeling butter-yellow siding.
A violent mixture of ivy and kudzu fight for real estate up the side of the house, crawling and twisting and reaching for the light.
I grip the strap of my backpack, tugging it higher onto my shoulder. This backpack and everything inside—a couple sticks of Jack Links, a stale bag of Goldfish, a filled-up flask, and Neosporin—was all given to me by Jasper.
This house, a one-story, disintegrating bungalow, is my home.
I finally have something that’s mine. I have something that I fought for, that I took.
Well, with the help of Greeley, who was all too excited to guard the home against raiders last night.
Am I surprised she wants me as her backdoor neighbor?
Kind of. But she admitted herself I earned her approval.
I’ve proved that I belong here, in Macoby.
So why does it feel like I’m running away?
I wonder how Andrew spent his time on this patchy front lawn. And did he sway on this rotted porch, listening to the cicadas? Did he watch zombie spiders weave this feathery web beneath the wall sconce?
Would he be mad that I now claimed his house as my own?
I’m mad at myself.
I twist the doorknob—unlocked. Either Andrew was too trusting of his fellow Macs, or Greeley did me a solid. Both options seem impossible.
I open the door, and I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s not this.
The house is full of light, a little piece of heaven shining through the open windows.
Tattered curtains billow in the breeze. The tile floor fits the space nicely.
A worn recliner, with a saggy middle and torn armrests, sits before a mantel.
On it, a flaking oil painting of a colorful field of flowers.
And then there are pictures. Everywhere.
Faded photos of Andrew and a dolled-up woman wearing a bright shade of pink lipstick in every single image: playing cards together, laughing in the middle of a dance floor, smiling with hot dogs at a baseball game . . .
My breath hitches. Tears get stuck in my throat like a fat wad of gum. I press my middle fingers into my palms to center myself.
Breathe.
But breathing feels like the hardest, most unnatural thing in the world right now as the memories held within Andrew’s pictures swarm my vision.
Andrew wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb, fixing her smeared pink lipstick, but careful not to show her his hand of cards.
Right foot, let’s stomp. Left foot, let’s stomp. Cha cha now, y’all! Andrew grabs her by the waist and pulls her across the dance floor.
Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs for the seventh inning stretch! Andrew makes sure to get two hot dogs, one with mustard and relish, just the way she likes it.
I choke on an inhale.
I’m the last person who will ever see these photos. Andrew and his lover’s memories end with me.
How long will this churning storm of guilt plague me?
I left Andrew. I fed him to the wolves. And now, he’s gone. Really, truly, gone.
The warm sun breaks through the window, beams of light reflecting off the glass of the picture frames, distorting the images.
Rage and guilt build in my chest, and when I can’t take it any longer, I scream.
I scream so hard that my throat gets rugburn.
I scream until my brain throbs. My eyes bulge and my ears ring.
I scream with my fists curled so tight my broken nails dig into my flesh and make me bleed.
I take all of Andrew’s memories—every single framed photograph—and I break them.
I hurl the glass onto the hard floor and let the shattered bits cut my ankles.
I pull the treasured photos from the debris, and I rip them apart, then I open the front door and scatter them in the wind.
When I walk back inside, the ground crunches under my feet, shards digging into the soles of my shoes. I slam my backpack and all my stupid shit onto the ground. And then, finally, I sit, curl my knees into my chest, and weep.