In between the time he came home and climbed into bed, he’d visit the kitchen and grab a bottle of Maker’s Mark, which he kept stocked up until six months ago. He was good about not adding extra dishes to the sink, since he rarely ate at home. Instead, he’d head right for the bar.
I’ve always been a very understanding person. My mistake.
I walk into our kitchen and grab a hidden bottle I found a few months back. I placed it in the back of the drawer that held large serving utensils, knowing he’d never go into it. Sure enough, the bottle is where I left it, so I take it with me to bed.
I’ll do what he did.
I’ll drink myself to sleep.
I’ll drink until the pain goes away.
Chapter Five
Chance
Why whiskey?She didn’t seem too affected by the several drinks she had—except for her attitude, but who knows what the girl is like when she’s sober. Worrying about her won’t do me much good, but I hope I don’t wake up to a news report about some chick jumping off the bridge into Lady Bird Lake.
While driving home, I debated if I should go back and check on her, but I don’t think it would have been a good idea after she called me a creep. I’m sure she’d call the sheriff on me.
After strolling through the front door, I hit the light switch, kick off my boots, and head for the kitchen to grab a drink. Within three seconds, one of the two hanging bulbs blows, casting a dull orange glow on the rest of the room. It’s just a little reminder that this house is about seventy years old and hasn’t seen an update. After working around peoples’ houses all day, coming home to work on mine is the last thing I want to do. Plus, I don’t care if the place looks old. I’m here and awake for a few hours a day, sleep six or seven hours in a dark room, and leave before the sun rises.
My dingy white fridge is the only thing I have my eyes set on right now. The door sticks when I yank it open, sounding like I’m pulling a piece of masking tape off a wall. It prompts me to grab a wad of paper towels for a quick wipe-down of whatever exploded in the antique, grab a Bud Light after the clean up and plop down at the oak table my parents handed down to me a few years back when they were upgrading their kitchen furniture. The table is sticky with its shellac texture I don’t like. I often scrape my fingernails across it when I’m not paying attention, leaving grooves and white marks, but the table is a perfect piece of furniture for holding up my bills and beer bottles.
I take a swig of the beer and notice a yellow envelope amongst the pile of bills I plan to tend to this weekend. I pull it out and turn it over to see the return address.
The Foster Child Foundation is seeking donations.
I slide my thumb under the closed flap and tear the seam apart to pull out the contents; an envelope, a letter, and a sheet of complimentary return address labels. I read the note every month, and it tugs at my heartstrings, giving me a good reason to appreciate my past.
The checkbook is resting across from me, just behind the heap of bills, and I lean forward to rip off the top check, snatching a pen from the coffee mug that holds my writing utensils. I make the check out to the foundation for a thousand dollars, fill out the form tucked under the envelope’s flap, and put it together so I can drop it in the mail tomorrow.
After another long guzzle from my beer, my phone rings in my pocket. I slide it out and see Pops’ name on display. I squint, checking out the time on the stove, and wonder why they’re calling so late. I get nervous with calls from them after nine.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I answer.
“Chance?” he questions.
“Yeah, Pops, it’s me. What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything is fine. Do you know how to get to the Hulu application on the TV? I’ve been struggling for two hours now, and all I see is snow.”
I surrender a heavy breath, relieved to hear there isn't anything is wrong with them.
“Hit the number 3, then hit the input button twice.”
There’s silence for a long minute. “I raised a genius. Thanks, son.”
“Anytime, Pops.”
“Hear any news today?”
I know what he’s asking about, the same news he’s been inquiring about for years. “Nope, nothing today. I guarantee you and Ma will know as soon as I hear something.” If I ever hear anything.
“I know, Son. I pray for you every night. I just want you to know that.”
“Love ya, Pops.”
“You too, son.”
