CHAPTER 1
Reed
ONE YEAR LATER
If someone asked me how you survive the loss of the love of your life, I could tell them. Callie Street didn’t die, but she became my sister-in-law, and for me at least, I think that’s worse. A million times I’ve packed everything I own in the back of my old Jeep and prepared to move as far from Macon as I could get. I just couldn’t push myself to go that final step.
I look at the trailer that they live in and think—not for the first time—how I’d love to set fire to it and all it stands for. I can’t make myself do that either.
Once a chump always a chump.
Callie and Mitch got married at the courthouse a couple of months after Chasity was buried. I wasn’t invited. I came and stood at the back of the room, just the same. I hoped my presence would make Callie change her mind. It didn’t and here we are a year later.
Both of us miserable.
I don’t know why she stays with Mitch. It’s not my business anymore. It stopped being my business when she said, “I do”.
I take a breath, grab my tool bag from the back of my Jeep, and walk toward the place Callie now calls home. It’s not a bad looking place, but Mitch has nothing to do with that. Callie works her ass off for this place. Mitch doesn’t do shit. If grass gets cut or anything gets done, it’s Callie. I don’t know, but I’d wager that she’s paid every payment on this place, too. I know for damn sure it was her credit—not Mitch’s—that bought it.
I walk to the door and knock on it. It takes a few minutes, but I don’t knock again because I can hear her moving around inside. When she opens it, she frowns. She looks at me like she always does…with embarrassment.
“Liza called you, didn’t she?” she says, with a heavy sigh. She leans on the door, her blue eyes holding none of the vibrance they did when we were together.
Then again, that was a lifetime ago.
“Yeah. Where’s the leak?”
“Shit, Reed. I didn’t want you to be the one to fix it. I called trying to find Mitch.”
“I could leave, and you let him fix it when he drags his ass home,” I suggest, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“It’s in the bathroom,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “I put a kettle under there, but by the time I get home from work, it’s full again. Mitch was supposed to fix it on his day off, but…”
She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t really need to.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“You need to cut him loose, Callie.”
“Reed—”
“Don’t defend him to me,” I warn her, walking into the bathroom.
As I walk down the small hall, my large frame taking up most of the room, I notice the door to the spare bedroom is open. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Callie’s stuff is strung on the bed. Obviously, she’s staying in there. I shake my head. Why I thought she would kick him out, I don’t know. She won’t even kick him out of the better bedroom in a house she’s paying for.
“He’s just… He’s having a hard time with the loss of Ryan,” she whispers. I don’t respond. There’s not much I can say to that.
I don’t know if my brother is mourning the loss of his son. I know it’s nearly killed Callie and she’s still working her ass off every day. Mitch, on the other hand, spends more time getting drunk at the bar than being a bouncer.
For whatever reason, she hasn’t kicked him out.
Callie lost her little boy a month before her due date. She slid coming out to her car in a hailstorm. She tried to catch herself on the banister, and it gave way, causing her to tumble to the ground.
I think that’s why she busted her ass to get this place. Living at the trailer park in that trailer was hell for her afterwards. I know she blames herself. I’m pretty fucking sure Mitch blames her and doesn’t miss an opportunity to tell her. Never mind his sorry ass should have fixed the banister and shit.
“It’ll just take me a minute,” I mumble as I get on the floor and open the cabinet.
“I could get you some coffee,” she offers, but I shake my head.
“Nah, I had some before I headed over,” I respond.
“Katie told me that she and Jeff went to watch you play at Maverick’s in Houston the other night.”
“Yeah,” I mutter the word as I look through my bag for the pipe wrench.
“She said you were really good.”
“It went okay.”
“Do you have any more shows lined up?” she asks, and I close my eyes, thankful she can’t see me. I’m lying so my head is under the cabinet, hidden from her. I don’t want to have small talk with her. It’s been a year and it still hurts to be around her.