But I break away and turn back to the door.
“Beth—”
“I’ll text you when I get home safe,” I mutter, then make my escape.
Running away for the second time in one day.
Chapter
38
There is atiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. One we never use because it’s cramped, has terrible wallpaper, and is missing multiple floorboards. The room is on our long list of things to get to.
I know my mom wants to knock down a wall that would connect it to a slightly larger bedroom and make the combined space into a craft utopia for Marge. But other repairs always get in the way, and the crafting supplies stay tucked in plastic bins in the garage.
Until tonight.
When I get home from George’s, I read over the texts my moms have sent me.
Mom:I’m not sure what that was at Cornfield’s, but I hope you’re okay. Text us if you need anything.
Marge:Is something up with you and Darla? Or you and George? If you need to talk, let me know.
Mom:Marge and I are going to trivia night at the coffee shop. We’ll be out late unless you want us to come home. Whatever you need.
Then there’s the note pinned to the fridge that they must have left before heading to Cornfield’s.
Please check water heater. Hot water is running out quickly again.
Grumps and I are alone in the house, and he is content to nap in his chair. I’m glad Mom and Marge are at trivia. My mind is too mixed up to talk to anyone.
And a water heater that keeps blowing the breaker isn’t helping matters. I’ve been adjusting the temperature to keep it from tripping. I know what’s wrong. What’s been wrong for months.
We need a new one.
I can’t YouTube DIY my way through this repair like I’ve been able to with so many others. And I know exactly how much it’s going to cost to replace it. Soon I’m going to have to write a check for a thousand dollars.
Mom can’t be taking cold showers, especially when winter comes back around. Her health is still fragile.
“You can’t afford it.”George’s voice plays in my mind. I know he was only referring to flight instruction. And I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me. But I’m still gutted.
That phrase applies to every aspect of my life.
Instead of heading to the basement to stare at the water heater I know I can’t fix, I stride into the garage, grab an armful of old sheets, eye protection, a face mask, and a sledgehammer.
I need to smash something.
When the sheets are spread on the floor below the wall on both sides and my face is covered, I heft the hammer, the wooden handle cool against my palms.
I swing.
You can’t afford flight lessons.
I swing.
You can’t afford to quit Beefies.
I swing.
