I frowned. “Because I don’t think to tell you about every facet of my day, especially when it pertains to impatient men.”
Beau’s face went blank, then he let me go.
That was a good thing.
“I’ve got to go,” he said roughly. He walked to his daughter, laying a kiss on her head before whispering in her ear.
He didn’t look at me again; he simply got in his truck and drove off.
I didn’t let myself wonder where he went.
BEAU
Though I wanted to tear through the neighborhood, I kept to the speed limit. A couple below, even. Because we’d just had the first snow of the season, it was a family street, and there were likely to be a bunch of excited kids not paying attention to where the sidewalk ended underneath the blanket of snow.
I knew the owner of the car. It was a small town, a quiet street. And although I was not a friendly or talkative neighbor, I knew most everyone on the street.
Including the asshole in the silver car. His house stuck out compared to the rest. No, the majority of the homes did not have sparkling paint, flowers, or seasonal decorations like mine. Well, mine hadn’t been unique in any way before Hannah had changed things.
Now my house looked like it belonged on the street. It looked like a family lived there. There was a fucking snowman being built on the front lawn.
Before her, there were no snowmen. Clara had been too young, too sick. I was too fucking terrified of her catching a cold.
There was always a Christmas tree. But it was decorated with cheap decorations. Nothing handmade. Nothing colorful or warm. Now it looked like Father Christmas had taken a tinsel dump in our living room.
I didn’t hate it.
Not a single bit.
But even before Hannah’s arrival, our house was at least barely presentable. The grass was cut, repairs tended to when needed.
Gus Havlock’s home had three crappy cars in the drive. None of them drove, all in various states of disrepair. An old couch rotted on his porch, the grime covering his windows obscuring the ratty curtains.
The house had once had red-painted shutters, a thriving garden, and two rockers on the porch.
Before Gus got his divorce and lost custody of his kids. I wasn’t up on the town gossip, but I knew enough to know that his wife and kids were better off.
You’d think a man who couldn’t see his kids would do everything in his power to get them back, better himself. Therewas no world I could imagine where Clara woke up without me, where I wasn’t there every moment of her childhood. Especially after fearing she wouldn’t have a childhood.
Gus did not have that perspective.
The door opened only after I’d pounded for a good two minutes. I knew he was home; the silver car was in the driveway, likely only pulling in a few minutes before I arrived.
The dull flicker of the TV was visible through the dirt.
When the door finally opened, I was met with the bitter scent of sweat and cheap liquor.
“Geeze,” he muttered, holding a beer and squinting at me. “Thought you were the cops with all the banging.”
There was a mild slur to his words. Coupled with the smell coming from him, I deduced he was drunk.
And we’d seen him driving. Down our street. Where Clara was playing. Not ten minutes ago.
I didn’t say a word before stepping forward, grasping him by his filthy collar, and slamming him against his own door.
“What the fuck, Beau?” He struggled weakly.
I zeroed in on his bloodshot eyes, trying to contain my need to drive my fist through his face.
