Chapter 3

3

LINCOLN

I didn't usually sleep. The previous night was no different, but instead of lying in a hospital bed, pretending to sleep for hours, I stayed up on the sofa and channel surfed. It was a relief and a terror at the same time. I had to do something to occupy the early morning hours, which allowed me to drift off for an hour or so.

When six o'clock rolled around, I stood up, stretched, and wandered over to my kitchen to get some breakfast. I hadn't been to the grocery store. I supposed I would have to go soon and dreaded the idea. There would be people everywhere, people I knew and who would recognize me. They would stop and stare or try to strike up polite conversations if they were brave. I didn't want any of that.

I opened the cabinets to see if there was anything inside and was pleased to find half a tin of coffee and some filters. I pulled them out, set them down on the counter, and plugged in the coffeemaker. It was a tiny little machine, with only enough space in the pot for three cups. Still, three cups were enough for one person, and I went to work filling it up. Such a mundane task, but it felt good.

In the hospital, I didn't have to fend for myself where coffee was concerned. They had everything available and would bring it to you like clockwork—breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. Breakfast featured one cup of horrible coffee, one cup of watery orange juice, one scrambled egg, one English muffin, and a single serving of yogurt. Before that, over in Afghanistan, if you could get breakfast, it was most often oatmeal or half-cooked scrambled eggs. I was going to enjoy my homebrewed coffee without all the unappetizing accompaniments.

I didn't want to go back to the television. I'd had enough of that. The sun wasn't up yet, so the apartment was filled with electric light. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with myself. If I had twenty-four hours in a day and I was awake for most of them, I was going to need a hobby or maybe a video game console. I had a little bit of money left that I could use to pick up a used machine at a yard sale or something.

The problem with money was that once it ran out, I didn't have a way to get more. I had a small disability check from the Army, but it wouldn't be enough to survive on. I had landed here in Singer's Ridge because I was out of options. If I wanted to be able to escape again, I had to find a job.

The grocery store came to mind. Maybe I could stock shelves. This injured leg would be a problem though. I needed a job that didn't require me to stand all day long. That put restaurants and construction out of the running. I wasn't any good at typing, and I didn't have any education past high school. For the life of me, I couldn't think of a single possibility.

Maybe I can stop by the library , I thought with a sigh. Maybe the librarian would have some ideas or at least a lead I could follow. The coffee pot beeped, letting me know it was ready. I poured myself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. I didn't have any cream or sugar, but I preferred it black. Sipping slowly, I was pleased to find it was a good brew, better than the kind offered by either the hospital or the Army.

I was just sitting, staring off into space, when there was a knock at the basement door. I frowned. No one knew I was in town, aside from my landlady and a handful of people I had seen walking from the bus station. Even if someone did know I was back, how had they traced me there?

I stood up, my bum leg aching. I crossed to the door without using my cane. I could maneuver fine in an enclosed space without assistance. It was just when the muscles had to be engaged for any length of time that I needed something to lean on.

I had almost talked myself into believing that someone was here looking for the previous tenant when I opened the door and came face to face with my dad.

He looked older and shorter than he had when I last saw him. The first was to be expected, and the second? Well, I guessed it was because I had gotten bigger. He wasn't so old that he had shrunk. Growing up, my dad had been the most imposing figure in my life. We didn't agree on a lot of things, mostly my grades and my bad habits. I had been a kid, trying to figure myself out. I didn't like school, and I was no good at it, but my dad wouldn't let it go. He kept hounding me about my grades, talking up college as if it were the only destination outside of high school. He wanted me to transfer to community college in Nashville, to go into business or something, get a steady gig and settle down. But between my mom's addiction and the constant back and forth between my siblings and I, getting the hell out of Dodge was the best option.

Even back then, I had trouble sleeping. I had all this negative energy that just consumed me, making it difficult to sit still and even harder to pay attention. I knew I was a disappointment to him, and that only drove the wedge between us deeper. We had frequent screaming matches, but I stuck it out until I graduated. I thought he would be happy that I hadn't dropped out or gotten involved in drugs like my mother and older brother had. But he had his sights set higher.

The day after I graduated high school, I visited the recruiting station, and just a week later, I was shipped off to basic training. I often thought of him at night when I couldn't sleep. Lying on my cot over there in Afghanistan, I wondered what Dad was doing and if he was still married to my stepmom. I wondered if Gina and George had ever come around after Mom died, or if they were still estranged as they had been when I left. Every time I faced death, I thought about him. I wondered how the Army would break the news and how he would take it.

Would he cry? Would he finally be proud if I gave my life in service to my country? Or would he think it was a waste and continue to berate me for my choices even after I was gone? A lot of the guys got care packages from their parents—candy and chips and even silly string when word got out that the party product would help detect IEDs. I never got anything.

I didn't care about him, and he didn't care about me. Except that wasn't true. I cared so much it hurt. All I wanted was for my dad to approve of something I had done. I wasn't the smartest person in the room or the friendliest, but that shouldn't matter to a parent. I felt betrayed by him, and that drove me away.

All through my recovery, in the back of my mind, I wondered how he was getting on. Did he know I had been shot? Did he know I was back in the States? Would he care? I got my answer when he didn't visit. He didn't call or write or look me up on social media. I basically considered myself an orphan and would never have returned to Singer's Ridge if I had any other familiar place to land. And yet there we were, face to face for the first time in eight long years.

"Son," he said.

I turned away, leaving the door open. "How did you find me?"

He shuffled inside, and I looked back, hearing a difference in the way he moved. He was holding a cane, almost exactly like mine, leaning on it for support as he closed the door behind him. I watched him, not lifting a hand to help, and he stood awkwardly in the entryway.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment before I pointed to the table. "Do you want coffee?"

"That sounds great," he answered, easing himself into a chair.

I found another mug in the cabinet and filled it. "I don't have cream or sugar."

"Black's fine. That's how I like it," he said. I had a momentary twinge of regret when I realized I didn't know how my own father took his coffee. It had been so long since I had seen him, and never as an adult. I wondered how he had injured himself, but something held me back from asking. I stared at him for a long moment before he finally answered my initial question.

"Mrs. Washington told me you were staying here."

I sighed, but I hadn't exactly asked her to keep my whereabouts a secret, so I couldn't be upset that she had snitched on me. Still, our families had only been loosely acquainted, and I had assumed she would mind her own business. Score one for the Singer's Ridge gossip mill.

"And Porter told me," Dad added.

"Porter?"

"Gina's fiancé."

"Oh." I had managed to stay in touch with Gina somewhat over the last year.

She'd texted me pictures of her baby, so I knew that the little boy was healthy and growing big. But she hadn't mentioned anything about the father, and I never asked.

I hadn't told her I was back in town either. So how had her fiancé found out? It must have come from someone I passed on my walk from the bus station. News spread like a virus in this town, and I doubted Mary Beth could keep her hands off her phone after she'd passed me.

I hadn't seen Porter since high school and doubted I would recognize him if I saw him. I hadn't been close to anyone back then. But he was making Gina happy, so I guessed he couldn't be all bad.

"How'd you injure your leg?" I asked.

"It was a knee replacement," he said. "Arthritis." There was a pause before he dropped his next question. "I heard you were shot."

I kept my face impassive, though warning bells were sounding loudly in my ears.

"How'd you hear?" I demanded.

"I was notified," he answered easily. And there it was. He really didn't care enough to keep tabs on me. The Army had told him. There wasn't any emotion involved on either end, just an information dump.

"What are you doing here?" was my next question.

He sighed, glancing around the apartment in an effort to stall. "This is a nice place."

I shrugged. "Landlady wants to have dinner every now and then. And apparently she wants to let everyone know that I'm staying here."

"Don't give her a hard time," Dad said in a low voice. "I'm glad she told me."

I let that one slide. If he had wanted to reach out, he could have done so at any point over the last eight years. There were times when I had felt alone out there in the desert. I would have welcomed his voice, even with his complaints about what I had chosen to do with my life. But there had been silence, and I had gotten the message loud and clear.

"Look, I don't have anything to say," I began, staring into my coffee cup.

"I messed up," Dad blurted out.

I glanced up, not having expected something so honest.

He shook his head. "When you were growing up. I messed up."

"I know," I said, cutting him off. This wasn't anything new. He had given me the same speech over and over again when I was a teenager. He was worried I wasn't going anywhere good. He was worried I wouldn't make anything of myself. He was worried that I wouldn't live up to whatever impossible standards he set.

Dad looked away, his eyes settling on the couch. "I think I pushed you away."

I chose not to respond to that, although it was more appealing than the familiar critiques of my character.

"I just want to say that I'm glad you're back, and if you want a job at the lumberyard, there's one waiting for you."

He was offering me a job. I desperately needed something to pay the bills and start saving if I ever wanted to get out of this town again. When I'd left, my dad was working there as a manager. He had encouraged me to apply for a position, hauling logs and sweeping floors. I hadn't been interested then, and I wasn't sure if I was interested now. Then again, it seemed more appealing than sitting home alone with my own thoughts.

"You still work at the lumberyard?" I asked, completely ignoring his first statement. If he was really glad to have me back, he was going to have to prove it. One kind remark wasn't enough to combat eight years of neglect.

"I own it," Dad answered. "I bought it four years ago. Porter runs it for me, and I'm sure we can find a job that'll work around your injury."

I paused. Gina hadn't mentioned this at all. It was an honest offer. Plenty of rich kids got all the good things in life by working for their parents. I wasn't interested in a yacht or a Harvard education, but some food in my pantry would be nice. I could potentially go to work for my dad, save up enough to get a fresh start, and leave Singer's Ridge behind for good.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Okay." Dad finished his coffee and stood up. "If you ever want to come by for supper or any other reason, my door's always open."

"Same house?" I asked, because there was always the chance that he had moved.

"Same house," he confirmed. "Go easy on Mrs. Washington."

I nodded. The last thing I wanted to do was berate an old lady for talking to my dad. It seemed like that was the only way we learned anything about each other—if someone told on me. Whether it was Gina, the Army, or my landlady, other people were conspiring to mend our fences. But it would take more than family, the government, and well-meaning townsfolk to bring Dad and me back together again. I would consider his offer of employment just as a means to an end. I wasn't going to be stopping by for supper or for any other reason.

He let himself out and shut the door. I sat for a long time, staring at the chair he had been sitting in. For years, I had wondered what our next encounter would be like. Would we fight again? Would he apologize? The reality had been less dramatic than I had expected. Nobody threw anything or raised their voice. It seemed like nothing had been resolved either, and even though we had finally seen each other's faces, we weren't any closer than we had been when I was thousands of miles away.