“You okay?” I called out, cautiously. He didn’t answer; just stood stock-still looking stunned, which was completely understandable, since I probably scared him out of his damn mind with my glorious parking abilities.
I pointed to my car, “Sorry. Bad day.” I walked into the garage, his eyes, devastated and filled with confusion, followed my movements. Leaning against the side of the car closest to him, I folded my arms across my chest and tilted my head. “But you, though…you look like you’re having an even worse day.”
His neck corded; his entire body tensed, like he was waiting for a punch. His lips opened and closed, so did his scraped fists.
I arched an eyebrow at him, waiting for whatever he was holding in to burst under the pressure. And it did.
He flinched back and his words exploded out like low thunder, “She thinks he was having an affair. Blamed it on me. Thinks it’s why he did it.”
“Who’s she?”
“Lucy,” he stammered, angrily. “Thomas’swidow.” He pronounced the word like it tasted bitter to his tongue.
“How is him sticking his dick someplace else your fault? And that’s not a reason to do what he did. It doesn’t make any sense. If you’re having an affair you get divorced. You don’t—”
“Don’t,” he yelled, stopping me. His nose flared, as he tried to calm his breathing. “Why was your day so bad?” he asked. “You almost drove right through me.”
I shrugged. “I would have stopped, probably.” His eyes softened with my tease, his shoulders loosened.
I shook my head and sighed, “I went to see my mother. She just—well, it doesn’t matter. I’m just going to wait until the door gets fixed and leave.”
“The door?”
“Yeah, the one you kicked through to get inside her house?”
“Oh, sorry, yeah. I didn’t even think about it. I just heard the alarms and…” His voice lowered and drifted off, like the thought wasn’t important enough to let out into the world. He looked away, tapping his fists softly against the punching bag.
“You saved her miserable life, don’t be sorry.”
I watched him quietly, wondering if his thoughts had led him right back to his dead friend. He was absently hitting the heavy bag, right hand then left.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but why would Lucy think that?” I asked, low.
“She found his phone,” he said, as the punches got quicker, harder, more intense. “He was calling the same woman a lot, too much, and for long periods of time.”
“Dean, I think she’s just hurting. It sounds like she wants to blame someone else,” I said, low.
His eyes lifted, focusing on a cell phone laying open on a workout bench. His fists punched even harder, pounding the bag so harshly the chain holding it bounced violently from the ceiling. Splats of red spread across the bag each time his raw knuckles collided against it.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” he growled.
“Of course, it does, Dean. Why else would you be in here making your knuckles bleed?”
“I told you before. I’m-empty-I-don’t-feel-a-thing,” he punched out the words to the rhythm of his blows.
“So then, why not make some calls? For Lucy?” I said, walking over to the phone. He froze, eyes angry, hands splayed flat out, stopping the bag from moving around. “Don’t touch it,” he rumbled.
“Why not just call the number? Ask the questions you’re beating yourself up about.”
“What if I find something that will hurt her? Huh?” He tone was curt.
“Don’t tell her,” I said, shrugging.
“What if it’s hurtful to his memory, andIhave to live with it for the rest of my life?” He snapped, throttling the bag with another punch.
“You’re the one that said you felt nothing Dean. You’re the one that said you’re only here to serve and protect, right? You’re not human, weren’t those your exact words?”
“You don’t know anything about me—”
