I told her from the start that I knew how this would end. That last part about me being a high school dropout came out, and that’s where the average woman takes the exit nearest to her. A dropout often comes with drugs, crime, and all those other side effects most people don’t like to relate to. I made it easy for her by breaking it off before she could break it off with me.
As I cover the mileage, I work through all the emotions that accosted me today. From that moment when I saw her in the warehouse and spotted her mother—that gush of relief that swooped through me, thinking that here was the reconciliation Georgiana had so wished for. Her mom, for all that she’s blocked Georgiana and hasn’t spoken to her in two months, was here, at the convention, coming to support her daughter and make peace, in person.
When I saw Georgiana with Rover, my first thought was that I was going to get her—us—a puppy once we’ve figured out where we’re going to stay during the winter months and build our own small house by the lake. I’d lived a whole life by the time I touched her hair, only to watch that life die in front of the firing squad seconds later.
Getting kicked out of the competition is hard to swallow, but I believed her when she said she didn’t know until this morning. If only she’d told me when she found out.
I turn up the radio’s volume, wanting to block out my words to her because that fight in the parking lot isn’t a moment I want to relive. There’s nothing to be proud of there.
As I drive into Ashleigh Lake, I stop at the liquor store and spot Bob pulling his cart along the sidewalk.
When I come out of the liquor store ten minutes later, Bob has parked himself a few yards from the entrance, close enough to make folks aware of his presence, but far enough not to piss off the owner.
“If that ain’t Raiden Logan. Still farting around town, are you?”
I walk up to him with a dry laugh. We’ve come a long way, Bob and me. “That sums it up.” I hand him a brown paper bag with a bottle of his favorite whiskey.
He gives it the one-eye peek. “Don’t say this is the good stuff.”
“I’m celebrating.”
“Did that tiny house of yours win?”
“Nope, I got disqualified for the first time in my life today.”
“That’s a first, is it?”
“Bound to happen, sooner or later.”
“Yeah, like ’em aliens. They’re coming sooner or later.” He slips a hand into his coat’s inner pocket and pulls out a baggie of weed. “To think you got into so much trouble for something that’s now legal.” He holds out the baggie to me.
As a teenager, it was so much easier getting hold of weed than booze. “That’s the good stuff right there, Bob.”
“And don’t you know it.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I might be knocked down, but I’m not going there again.
Bob shrugs. “Thanks for the whiskey.”
We mock-salute each other like the old days, except that we’re doing our dealings in broad daylight.
I carry on to Al’s Grocer where I stock up on food for at least three days so that I can hole myself up properly in the man cave.
By the time I get to the boathouse, it’s dark and the place is eerily quiet for a home that was filled with so much love and laughter just yesterday. Screw twenty-four hours. And all those minutes. And all those seconds. They can turn your life upside down from one to the next.
I get busy making the fire and start drinking deep. By the time the steak is done, I’m so drunk, I’m already hung over. Doesn’t matter what I do, her last words are going to haunt me for the rest of my life. They keep ringing in my head like sentences I’ve rehearsed but can’t get over the threshold of my tongue.
You just can’t think beyond that, can you? You’d have some wing left if the chip on your shoulder wasn’t so freaking big.
I wake up the next morning, head blaring, the sun sky high, and someone banging on the door. I drag myself through the boathouse, clutching the comforter tight. Somehow, I managed to lock the front door last night before going to bed.
“My head! Stop the fucking banging already.” I unlock and wrestle the door open to find Hunter standing outside, hand raised to knock some more.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hunter asks, as he studies my face.
“Slumming.”
“Uncle Bill let me know your truck was parked here. It looks like you grilled last night. Where’s George? Why aren’t you in Boston?”