“Can I pick you up at … say … six tonight?” I ask.
A wide grin stretches across August’s cheeks. “I would love that. I’ll text you my address.”
She’s about halfway into her Jeep when I pull her out to satiate my desire for more. “I’m not ready to let you go,” I mutter against her ear. I comb my fingers through the back of her hair, urging her lips to mine. My grip is firm even though I’m trying to be gentle with her, but she’s making me crazy in a way I’ve avoided for years. It’s like I just woke up from hibernation, and I’m starving for her.
A soft moan expels from my throat as I’m kissing her. My reaction might be an obvious response of how I feel, but August laces her arms around my back tighter. The progression of our wordless conversation encourages me to pin her up against the side of the Jeep. With a gaze so deep within hers, all thoughts disappear. My lips fall to her chin and travel down her neck until I reach her collar bone. “You’re making me lose my mind,” I whisper
“Save it for tonight, cowboy,” she says, grabbing the collar of my shirt within her fists, pulling my face back up to meet hers. She leaves me with one last kiss, then sneaks out from beneath my arms to clamber into her seat. “Go get em.” After an adorable wink, she closes her door, leaving me winded by her sheer existence.
The meeting with the foster care foundation is a little more stressful than I anticipated. Between dumping the boy’s history on me and the requirements needed to begin this process, I’m overwhelmed, excited, but overwhelmed.
Mrs. Falcon is an older woman, rigid looking with her silver bob-cut hair framing her chin and a dress suit that has a starch coating. Her pale lipstick and neutral makeup offer a clean, no mess—no fuss appearance, and I’m responding in suit. I suppose I would expect nothing less than a person of her stature to be in charge and responsible for so many details.
I feel swallowed up by this office, sitting behind a grand chestnut executive desk. Bookcases cover the walls, spanning from the floor to the ceiling, and each shelf is full of books on childhood development. I wouldn’t even know what color the walls are. It’s like a library. The large window behind me is the only form of light, but it’s enough to cast a glow of seriousness on Mrs. Falcon’s gaunt complexion.
She has yet to smile or show any inkling of warmth.
“After the home visit we had last month, we have a couple of notes about the interior. We’re requesting that you replace the missing linoleum tiles in the kitchen to ensure no asbestos below. We will need a report proving that the kitchen is free of asbestos. A few of the windows tested positive for lead in the paint. You will need a fresh coat of paint to fix that, as well. We would also like to see a bedroom suitable for a child, rather than the empty room you currently have. I will supply you with a list of necessities for a nine-year-old child. Will this work for you, Mr. Miller?”
I’m embarrassed because I thought my house was adequate and suitable for a child. If I had known it wasn’t, I would have made the renovations a long time ago. I have a list of action items to tend to from the last home visit, and I have less than a week to get everything handled. “Yes, ma’am. I will take care of everything immediately,” I tell her.
“Very well, then. We’ll get back to you a few days from now and send someone over for another check-in. We can continue with the process once that is complete.”
“Fantastic. I’ll be in touch,” I tell Mrs. Falcon
While leaving the office, I feel the burden of stress, hoping I can accomplish everything that needs to happen in the brief time I have.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
August
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
I didn’t realize I had purchased so many bottles of whiskey or drank so many bottles, for that matter. My Saturday afternoon has been full of purging. Everything that reminds me of Keegan needs to be out of sight right now. I need a fresh start.
With the windows open, my kitchen clean, and the bathroom clean, it’s already feeling better here. Though, there’s still something lingering. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel alone in this apartment with the memories of the last seven years here.
The apartment was empty but filled with sunlight and waiting for us to add personal touches. It was hard to believe I was at a point in my life where I could finally be living in a place of my own. Although, I wasn’t entirely ready for such a big step. I didn’t say no, though, either. I was glad we were able to agree on starting with rent before making a purchase, at least.
The location wasn’t Keegan’s first choice since he had his mind set on buying a house a few miles outside of Austin, but after coming off a six-month drinking bender, there was no way I was ready to commit to a mortgage.
Even with just monthly rent, the financial commitment was a stress factor, especially since we both had it so easy at home. I saw the age of twenty-one as a time to find my bearings, but Keegan saw it as an escape—the beginning of the rest of his life. He had been determined to move out, and there was no way he could afford a place on his own. I would have happily stayed with my parents a little longer since I was still so new with working at a group home. Though, the thought of moving in with Keegan swept away all other concerns.
“This is it, babe,” Keegan said, curling me up in his arms and carrying me through the front door. “The beginning of our forever.”
He set me down on my feet and I glanced around at the space, imagining our future unfolding the way I had dreamed; the modern decor, sunny colors, parties on the oversized balcony, an engagement ring, planning a wedding, and babies. Everything seemed perfect. I felt lucky to have found my forever person at such an early age.
Was I really?
What I didn’t see were the whiskey bottles that would he would be lining up on the kitchen counter, the trail of dirty laundry Keegan would leave between our bedroom and bathroom. The trash he would never empty, the fridge he wouldn’t fill, the dishes he wouldn’t clean. I didn’t envision the nights he would be so drunk and passed out and covered in sweat on top of our on our perfect cream-colored couch with sunny yellow throw pillows, or the times I would find him sprawled out next to a puddle of vomit on the beautiful sky-blue bath mat I bought for the bathroom.
My dream slowly disintegrated day after day.
I could help him, I thought to myself. I could teach him to be a responsible grown man. I tried, but it never worked. I took care of everything from obtaining a stable job to cleaning the apartment every day. I did the laundry, the dishes, the cooking. I even cleaned up the vomit.
