He stops and turns back to face me. “No. Coming back to this place was a mistake. I’m done. I’m finishing your cottage and I’m moving back to Boston. Or somewhere else. Somewhere people don’t know about my past so I don’t have to fucking waste my time trying to convince people I’ve changed.”
I watch him stalk across the street, get into his truck and drive away, the tires peeling, going in the opposite direction of the cottage until my tears blur my vision.
20
Holden
I am my own worst enemy. Always have been and apparently always will be. I could have just told her everything—where I was going, why I was going, who I was seeing—all of it. But I didn’t and when she seemed suspicious, I got angry instead of honest. It’s just the easier response to me. Anger is like an old comfortable sweater that only later on I realize is made of barbed wire and leaves me with more scars than I can heal. Deep metaphor I can take no credit for. Some therapist I was mandated to see once a week when I was in juvie spewed that line out once and, as much as I hate to admit it, it stuck with me all these years.
And that anger fueled more bad decisions than just pushing Winnie away. After I left her I went to the Brunswick and drank until they cut me off and then, unable to drive, I started the stumble home. Somehow, I wandered into the twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven and bought a six-pack and took it to the beach and now here I am—facedown in the beach dunes with the boot of a police office nudging me awake.
I roll over and stare up at him. I’m freezing cold, my skin and clothes are damp and I have one behemoth of a hangover in full effect. “Get the fuck up, you hobo.”
I can’t. I just can’t go to jail. I’ve had a perfect record my entire adult life and I’ve blown it. Maybe Winnie, Bradie, and everyone else are right and I haven’t changed at all. Fuck.
“Officer, I am so sorry,” I start but he doesn’t want to hear it.
“Stand up, slowly, hands behind your head.”
I do as I’m told, the pounding in my head getting worse with every second. I close my eyes while he pats me down for weapons. He pulls my wallet out of my back pocket and the necklace out of my front pocket. “You know it’s illegal to sleep on the beach and it’s illegal to drink alcohol on the beach? And since I bet you don’t wear a pearl necklace while you get drunk on the beach should I even ask if this is stolen property or should I just assume it is?”
“No sir, it’s not stolen. I mean it was, but it’s not now.” He opens his mouth to say something more, but I keep rambling as his hand is moving toward his handcuffs. “I am so very sorry. I have no excuse for the drinking and passing out except that I had a really horrendous night. I’ve had a really horrendous life actually if I want to feel sorry for myself, but I don’t. It’s not an excuse. I fucked…I messed up, but that necklace is being returned to the owner. That’s why I have it. I wasn’t stealing it. I never stole it to begin with I just—”
“Holden? Hendricks?” the officer says and his tone is no longer authoritative. Now it’s surprised. “Shit. Is that actually you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles. “Joel Moore. I played hockey with you. Went to school with you too until you were arrested.”
“Right! Joel!” I remember him now. He was two inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter and had way more hair when I knew him, but I remember him. I think we were actually friends. I mean, I don’t think I ever punched him. “How are you?”
“Better than you, I guess,” he jokes. Now he’s joking, which even with my pounding headache and the shivers I have from my dew-soaked clothes, I realize is a good sign. Still, I keep my hands behind my head until he holds out his to me. “Relax. Shake my hand, buddy.”
I do and smile back at him. “I really am sorry, and I swear I didn’t steal that necklace.” I pause, scrambling to figure out how to word this without lying. “I found it and I know who it belongs to and I was going to return it.”
Not a total lie but an easier explanation for a police officer—friend or not—than saying it was the necklace my buddy stole, which I was blamed for when we were kids. I tracked it down from a stripper with the help of a drug dealer so I could return it and finally make the owner forgive me so her friend will let herself love me. Jesus, that sounds crazy.
“Listen, buddy, I won’t arrest you,” he says and glances around to make sure the beach is deserted. “But you can’t do shit like this anymore. I mean when kids do it, we give them a warning, but adults…usually that’s at least one night in jail.”
I nod gratefully. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…girl trouble. But I won’t let it happen again. I promise. Thanks, Joel.”
“Girl trouble,” he rolls his eyes. “Twice divorced, so I feel you.”
I nod again, poor bastard. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “So what are you up to these days? Hopefully more than this.”
He hands me back the necklace and my wallet and I put them in my pockets and bend and collect the empty beer cans at our feet. “Things are going okay actually. I have my own renovations business. Working on the Braddock cottage right now.”
“Really? That’s great,” Joel says as I walk toward the garbage can by the boardwalk and he follows. “I’m thinking about redoing my apartment. Make it more of a bachelor pad since the last wife moved out and I’m never marrying again. Maybe you can swing by and give me a quote for it.”
“Sure. Would love to,” I say because at this point, if he’s not going to arrest me or even give me a ticket, I would do his renos for free.
“Do you have a business card or a website or something?” he asks as we both make our way down the boardwalk.
“Not yet. Working on that.” Instead, I offer him my phone number, which he punches into his cell and says he’ll give me a call.
“No more of this shit okay?” Joel cautions.
“Yeah, no worries there,” I reply, and he nods and heads back to his cruiser just a few yards away. I watch him drive off and tip my head to the sky and thank whatever is looking out for me. Then I make my way back to the cottage.
