Chapter 3
Chapter three
Rhett
Icrank down the window of my truck and turn up the radio, letting music drown out the noises of the city as I pull off the brick lined street.
The Brecken Building fills my rearview mirror.
I’ll be happy to never come back to this pretentious neighborhood, at least not for a while.
The people around here pay well, but not all of them treat me with dignity.
I’ve got thick skin, but it gets old quickly.
My phone lights up on the worn bench seat next to me, and I thumb open the notification as I idle at the red light. Just another alert from my security system telling me motion was detected on the front porch. My dog again—probably slipped out the back door. For the second time this week.
She won’t go anywhere; she just doesn’t love being alone. I thought she’d get used to it by now. It’s just us for the foreseeable future, I keep reminding her. Girl doesn’t listen.
The streetlights pass by in a blur as I merge onto the freeway, the smell of gasoline coming through the car vent. This drive is routine, I could do it in my sleep. I know each curve of the roadway, shifting the old gears without a single thought.
Except for the thoughts about Audrey. The way her hazel eyes shined with tears; unnecessary embarrassment etched on her face. The way the cigarette sat between her full, pink lips.
I’ll never see that girl again. I don’t need to be thinking about this shit.
But seriously, what the hell kind of loser cheats on a girl like that? On their fiancé?
Not that I've always been a star boyfriend or date. Hell, I’ve never even come close to being engaged. My longest stint lasted just shy of a year and we were eighteen.
The timing in my life also hasn’t been impeccable, but I'm glad I decided to take a load off on that rooftop before driving home tonight. I hope Audrey is passed out in her bed by now. She definitely drank enough champagne to sleep for two days.
Reaching for the old, yellowed dial, I tune the radio to a new station. Classic rock, just like my old man used to blast decades ago from this same seat. My friends harp on me for not upgrading the stereo system in this old truck, but I like the simplicity of old things.
As I’m pulling off the road onto the gravel lane that leads home, I think of her again, a pang in my tired chest, wondering if she is okay.
My boots hit the grass outside my truck door, and I snatched my lunch cooler and canteen off the passenger side floor.
If I was a betting man, I’d say her asshole ex is already on his way back to her with a dozen roses in tow, an expensive gift, maybe a surprise trip to somewhere she always wanted to go, ready to beg her to get back together—that’s what rich guys do, right?
And maybe she’ll say yes and brush this all under the rug, and live happily ever after.
And I’ll just be a stranger she’ll forget by tomorrow afternoon.
Woof!
My eyes dart up, catching the shadow of my eighty-pound dog lazily getting her butt off the porch, crossing the yard and waltzing up to me.
“Again, girl? When you gonna learn to not nudge the door so hard?” I ruffle her long hound dog ears, and she follows me happily to the backdoor. I make a mental note to fix the latch on this door as I pull it open, flipping on the light over my kitchen island.
A stack of mail and a pan of what’s probably zucchini bread sits on the butcher block counter. Tell-tale signs my mom was here again; she can’t go a day without making something from her garden and dropping it off. Retirement has her going stir-crazy.
Tossing my lunch cooler and canteen in the sink—it’s tomorrow's problem—I rifle through my mail. Nothing important, as usual.
“Think we got time to catch the end of the game?” I ask and Mabel perks up her ears.
She doesn’t follow me into the bedroom, where I strip out of the dirty work clothes I’ve been wearing for twelve hours now.
I kick off my worn-out boots, and they land near my bed, my gaze holding onto them for a beat longer.
Who the hell wears pink slippers on a rooftop deck? That’s just ignorant and unsafe.
Cranking the shower spout, I also push open the window above the tub. The exhaust fan and my AC simultaneously stopped working last week, which is a death sentence in the Carolina summer, but they will have to wait for a fix until another day. And another paycheck.
Clean, but tired as hell, I grab a tin of assorted nuts from my pantry, and kick back on my sofa.
The newest thing in my house. My sister convinced me it was time to say goodbye to the bachelor pad furniture and nearly forced me to buy this tan, slipcovered sofa.
The cover is machine washable, she touted in the showroom, reminding me it was essential with my stinky dog who finds herself sleeping on this sofa every afternoon.
Like she can read my mind, she hops up next to me, circling three times before plopping down, eyeing the snack in my hand.
I toss her a peanut, turn on the TV, catching the end of the Braves game.
It doesn’t take long before she’s snoring next to me, and my eyes grow heavy. Right before the blue walls of my living room turn to black, my thoughts flash back to the girl in the white dress.