Chapter Eight

The stuff with the chaps in the barn still felt like a dream even nearly twenty-four hours later. The thing with his mother in the jail didn't, though. That was about as real as it got. He jiggled his truck keys in his hand and tried to focus on the dream instead of reality.

"You need company, son?" Leonard leaned against the cow barn door, watching Greg walk to his truck.

Greg waved. "I'm good."

He wasn't as worried about his father as he had been about his mother. His father had loved him at one point. He just loved the alcohol more.

"Call me if you need me."

"I know. I will."

"Greg."

Greg turned. Their gazes met and held. The longer they stood there across the farmyard, the less Leonard had to say.

Greg nodded. "I promise."

Leonard nodded and moved toward the barn, disappearing inside.

Greg got into the truck and immediately started the engine, pressing the button for the air. The sun had warmed the inside of the cab enough that it stole his breath. He pulled his seatbelt around himself and put the truck in reverse, intending to back out of the space. When his phone rang, he sighed and put the vehicle in park again.

"Hello?"

"Hi." Brian's sweet voice met his ears, making life easier. "I know you were supposed to call me instead, but I couldn't wait any longer."

Greg grinned. "That's all right, honey." It was getting on to the end of most peoples' workday, so he decided to make conversation about that since he couldn't think of anything else to say. "How's your day going?"

"It's fine. Boring number-crunching stuff you probably don't want to hear about. How did the visit go with your dad?"

"Haven't left yet. I tried to perfect my procrastination ability today." Greg tapped on the steering wheel and tried to curb his giddiness.

Brian chuckled. "How did you do?"

"A-plus." Especially since it was nearly five o'clock. "By the way, I always want to hear about your day."

"Okay, then. I gained a new employee. His name is Landon, and he moved to town. That's the most exciting thing that happened today. Oh, and Molly had a playdate with Luis' little brother Cadon since the school suspended him again."

Luis and Cadon were Brad Flynn's brothers. He was the guy who'd hurt Jaron all those years ago. Greg stiffened, remembering that day. Some things didn't leave the mind no matter how much time passed.

"They're my neighbors. Our backyards butt up to each other. Brad was released from prison."

Shit. "What!"

"Yep. I haven't talked to him or anything, but I saw him smoking a cigarette on his back patio the other day. He seems a little broken. He's sober, according to Luis, though." Brian seemed oblivious to Greg's stress.

"Do me a favor and stay away from him?"

"Yeah, I know. Andrew makes sure the doors are locked, even when we're home."

Greg was never more grateful that Brian had gained the chief as a roommate. "That's good."

"I don't think he's dangerous anymore, though. Luis says he got counseling in prison and that helped a lot, I guess."

"Does Jaron and Travis know he's out?" Greg would bet money Travis didn't.

"Jaron knows because Luis told him."

"If you feel uncomfortable in your house, come to the farm. Promise me."

Brian chuckled. "Are you asking me to spend the night, cowboy?"

"I'm serious." Greg would never forget the way Jaron had lain in the yard going in and out of unconsciousness with tears on his face and bruises on his body.

Brian hadn't had the same experiences.

"Okay. Sorry." Brian sighed. "Can I see you later?"

God, Brian asking that did it for Greg in ways he never thought he would experience. "I would love that."

Greg had actively avoided the street where he'd grown up. Most homeowners had maintained their property — all except Greg's old house. Mold clung to the siding, turning it green in blotchy patches. Someone had mown the lawn, but no one had landscaped in any other way.

Nothing had changed in the neighborhood much.

Mrs. Walters' house had changed colors, and someone had added a nice deck. A child's beach bucket and shovel sat on a small multi-colored children's picnic table. Mrs. Walters must have moved.

Greg parked in the driveway next to a big old boat of a Cadillac. The car was an eighties model. Even the cream color spoke of the past. It had a bent bumper, and the rear side panel had a dent in it. Despite its flaws, the car had his father written all over it.

Greg shut off the engine and opened the door. The smells of the neighborhood hit him hard and took him back to places he'd rather not revisit. His chest tightened as he got out of the truck.

If he were any other kind of man besides the one Leonard had raised, he'd have gotten back into his truck and headed straight for the farm. The smell of cows and horses as he entered the farmyard would soothe him. The familiarity of grass growing in an open field comforted him in ways nothing else could.

His father wasn't as mean of a drunk as his mother. Sherri didn't care about anyone but herself. Roger was plain addicted. That Greg could wrap his head around easier than Sherri's narcissism. It was possible to forgive all the negative, neglectful shit Roger had done.

The closer he came to his dad's front door, the more the chest muscles around his heart tightened, and the more sweat broke out on his forehead. He clenched his jaw, afraid he'd yell at the top of his lungs. The last thing he needed was to make a spectacle of himself in his old neighborhood. He could feel something building inside him, though.

Maybe it was seeing Sherri and then Roger. He should have given himself time to process his mother's angry response.

He had lived in peace on the farm with Leonard as his guardian so long that everything before seemed like a bad dream. Part of the reason was Leonard and his way of insisting Greg talk through his problems. He'd always taught him a better way of handling his issues than violence and yelling.

Greg took a deep breath and raised his fist to knock on the door. Before he had a chance, someone yelled, "hey" from somewhere nearby.

Greg instinctively turned toward the voice, seeing a big, redheaded man run across the street. He'd cut his hair short with it longer on top than around his head. He had on jeans that had seen cleaner days and an orange T-shirt that read Shannon Construction. Greg recognized the construction business because it was the only one in town. They mostly did big projects and worked out of town a lot of the time.

"You're Roger's son?" The guy asked when he stood in front of Greg.

Greg nodded but didn't bother saying anything else. He wasn't going to explain himself to someone he didn't know.

"I've been trying to get in touch with Roger all day. He doesn't answer the door, and I'm getting a little worried."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Greg pulled his car keys out of his pocket. He still had a key to the house, but it had been years since he'd used it. His parents could have changed the locks.

The guy eyed him suspiciously for the first time since he stepped up. "Yesterday, when I brought him groceries. He wasn't feeling well at that point what with the chemo."

Chemo?

Greg switched his keys from one hand to the other and held the free one out. "I'm Greg."

The guy took his hand and shook it. The suspicion left his face. "Isaac Shannon. Next door neighbor. Roger talks about you all the time, and your picture's in the hallway."

"Right." Greg shifted his keys again when Isaac let his hand go and turned, putting the key into the lock.

"Roger regrets a lot. You should know that." Isaac must have spent a lot of time with Roger. "I don't pretend to know why you came, but if it's to kick him while he's down, then you'll hurt his feelings."

A wall of emotion lodged itself in Greg's throat until only a trickle of air escaped. Greg's hand shook as he opened the door. He cleared his throat. "Sherri's in jail. Going away for a long time, so I saw her. For closure. I thought I might as well get that with Dad too."

And maybe he came because he wanted that piece of Roger that Isaac seemed to know. The Roger who stayed sober long enough to have a conversation about regrets. Hell, a discussion about anything would have been nice, but Greg couldn't remember a time they'd had one. Not one single time.

As soon as the door opened the smell of rotten food hit him. Roger and Sherri hadn't been the cleanliest of people, but Sherri had kept the house in okay condition. Sherri must have moved out some time ago if the state of the house was any indication.

When had they decided to split up? Pickleville was a small town, so he heard the gossip every time Roger and Sherri got into it. That was until he'd stopped hearing it. That was a couple of years back at a guess, but Greg hadn't heard about them separating.

Roger and Sherri were the two north poles of a magnet. Every time they came together, the clash was dramatic. They weren't ever supposed to connect, but they had. They'd brought Greg into their messed-up world, making him watch the violence and addiction. They'd even drawn him into the madness.

How was he supposed to stay levelheaded? He had a right to flail against Roger, regardless of his illness or the state of the house.

Newspapers covered the coffee table. A cup of some sort of brown liquid sat on top of them. From his vantage point, he could see dirty dishes all piled up on the counter in the kitchen.

Sherri had abandoned Roger, and maybe that meant she had abandoned Greg too. Growing up with parents like them had meant Greg had been a man longer than he'd been a boy, but he went right back to that place where he needed the mother that used to make cookies and let him help. He needed that woman beside him as he made his way down the hall toward the bedrooms. Not the angry addict he'd gotten yesterday.

He stepped over a pile of clothing in the hallway. "Roger!"

Nothing.

"He never let me touch the house," Isaac whispered from behind him.

Greg had forgotten he was there. His mind traveled down a sad road, taking his attention. "He was never good at cleaning. Sherri kept up with it."

"I never met her. She was gone before I moved in next door."

Greg cleared his throat again. "And when was that?"

"Almost three years ago now."

"Dad!" Greg didn't want to think about his parents' separation anymore. It reduced him to a boy in ways he didn't like.

As soon as he entered Roger's room and saw Roger's lifeless body, he snapped into action. Greg had treated plenty of animals, but there wasn't a separation between human and animal in Greg's mind.

"Call an ambulance." Greg stood beside the bed, next to Roger.

His dad had aged about twenty years since the last time Greg had seen him. The illness gave his skin a pasty gray color that drugs or alcohol hadn't even caused. Roger had never looked so bad.

Isaac grabbed the landline phone that sat on the nightstand. When he lifted the receiver, several pill bottles fell over—the pills inside rattled around. A couple fell to the floor. "Shit."

Isaac dialed the phone even as he righted the mess. There must have been at least ten prescriptions in all.

Greg took Roger's hand, lifting it, feeling for a pulse. "He has a pulse, and he's breathing but not enough. He needs oxygen. Tell them to hurry." His chest didn't move as much as it should have, and Greg would've bet Roger's blood pressure was low.

Roger wouldn't live very much longer.

Greg moved away from the bed and listened to Isaac as he talked to the 911 operator. He could already hear sirens.

On the nightstand next to Roger's still body, lay an envelope with Greg's name on it. The white paper lay stark against the dark wood finish. Roger had written each letter of Greg's name in a messy scrawl.

Greg hesitated before picking the envelope up and stuffing it into his pants pocket.