Page 22 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

Dawson glanced over at me, reading my face with the same uncanny skill he’d always had, even when we were kids and I thought I had a poker face, he could tell if I was upset. I ignored his stare, pretending nothing was wrong.

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I tried to nip the conversation in the bud.

“Do you want me to run interference? I can tell him in no uncertain terms to back off.”

Janine was a pit bull, she was a true ride-or-die, she was the sort of assistant that went to bat for you even when you told her it wasn’t her game to play and she should just sit in the stands drinking a beer and eating a hot dog.

But I didn’t need her to fight this battle for me. “No, let’s not escalate it. I’ll handle it.”

Janine made an “mmm” noise that implied she did not have faith in my ability to “handle it,” but she would let it go for now. “Okay. Call if you change your mind about Finch or Peter. I’ll burn this place to the ground if it comes to that.”

I couldn’t help but grin at her blind and unwavering loyalty and enthusiasm. “I don’t think it will, but thanks, Janine. Bye.”

The call disconnected as Dawson pulled to a stop, the tires eating up the gravel.

I glanced around and realized that besides the farmhouse, the structures on Buddy’s property were a collection of random outbuildings, fences, and ancient, weathered decks stitched together by the kind of improvisational carpentry that only octogenarian men or possum colonies could fully appreciate. The front yard was a tangle of blackberry brambles and dandelions in full Jurassic bloom, and the porch roof listing so heavily to one side it looked ready to give up and topple into the dirt. As we got out, I saw that the blue trim I’d always loved had faded to the color of a bruise.

Both of us paused before heading to the porch. I caught Dawson staring at the house in disbelief, and for a moment, I saw him as a stranger, a big, broad-shouldered man with nothing in common with the boy I’d loved, except for a certain stubborn set to his jaw. Then he turned, and the boy was there again, looking at me with a silent apology.

“Has it… How long has it been this bad?” I asked. My voice came out small, almost childlike.

He shook his head. “Last time I was out here, it was messy, but it wasn’t…” He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the mess.

We mounted the steps, which flexed and creaked ominously under our combined weight. I remembered the key was always under a pot shaped like a frog, and sure enough, it was still there, camouflaged by a decade’s worth of moss. I turned it in the lock, and the door swung open on a gasp of stale air that made my nose wrinkle.

Inside, the place was a time capsule. On every surface, stacks of old newspapers and half-completed crossword books waged a silent war for territory. The kitchen I remembered as bright and clean was now a disaster zone: empty beer cans, crusted plates, and a sink so full of something black and tarry that I was instantly guilt-ridden for living across the country and not being close enough to provide Buddy with home-cooked meals.

The living room wasn’t any better. The bookshelves, once obsessively organized, had collapsed in on themselves, volumes spilling onto the floor in a paper avalanche. A blanket, stained and threadbare, lay crumpled on the sagging couch, and on the wall, a portrait of my grandmother and mom stared down with an expression of withering disappointment.

Dawson stepped carefully over a stack of National Geographics and opened the fridge, immediately recoiling. “There’s… nothing in here,” he said. “Nothing edible, anyway.” He prodded a carton of milk, which sloshed like a water balloon. “I should have checked on him more.”

“I need to find his books,” I reminded myself, trying not to get overwhelmed by the state of disarray Buddy had been living in. My heart broke and tears sprang to my eyes.

Dawson drifted through the house, opening doors, his footsteps heavy. “I had no idea it was this bad… I knew he was alone out here, but I figured he liked it that way. He always said he didn’t need anyone around.”

Thankfully, despite the mess, his ledgers were exactly where they’d always been in his rolltop desk. I grabbed them and went looking for a bag I could shove them in. I found a tote hanging in the broom closet.

Once I’d secured what I’d come there for, we stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of Buddy’s neglect, and I felt an ache so sharp it bordered on physical pain. I’d spent years blaming the old man for every slight, every childhood humiliation, every time he chose a drink or a crossword over me, but now, looking at the state of his life, I realized I had left him here to rot. I’d walked away, and whatever small tether existed between us had frayed and snapped.

Dawson opened a kitchen cabinet, rooting for something he didn’t find, then closed it with a little more force than necessary. “I should have made time to come out here and check on him,” he reiterated, his hazel eyes dark and deeply sad.

“No, don’t do that. This isn’t your responsibility.” I felt my throat tighten. “I had no clue it was this bad. I just… I thought he was fine. He said he was fine. But I should have known better, he always acted fine, even when things were falling apart.”

The last month my mom was on hospice care, Buddy went about his business as if nothing was going on. He didn’t even take off work the day after she passed. He was up at dawn out in the field harvesting. He only took a half day for her memorial service. Apparently, it was the same for my Gigi Rose. I was too young to remember when my grandma died, I was only two at the time, but I remember my mom telling me about it a little bit before she died. I think she was trying to prepare me for his behavior. It didn’t. I was still shocked at how he just seemed to go on with his life as if nothing had happened. As if the entire world hadn’t just lost the greatest soul on the planet. I never understood that.

A silence stretched between Dawson and me as I scanned the kitchen and stopped on the fridge. There was a magnet on it of a photo of me from high school graduation, arm in arm with Buddy, both of us smiling at the camera. He appeared so robust, so larger than life, so healthy. A wave of guilt crashed over me. How could I have let him deteriorate so much in just a little over ten years? How could I have been so blind?

I had no clue what or how I could make this right, but I did know one thing, I would. I would do whatever it took to get Buddy back on his feet, up and running again. Even if it was pulling teeth to do it.

8

MEASURE TWICE, PINE FOREVER

Dawson

There are three things you should never have to do before seven in the morning: drink bad coffee, make a decision that matters, or sit in a hospital parking lot next to the girl you let walk out of your life.

I killed the engine and watched Sadie’s hands move against her thighs like she was trying to press something down that wouldn’t stay. The hospital rose pale and blank against the early morning sky, the kind of building that didn’t bother pretending it held anything good. The sun was cresting the roof, and the fluorescent lights inside were already burning cold and blue, visible even from the loading zone. I knew every chair in that waiting room, every waxy floor tile, every flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead. My brothers had practically kept this place in business growing up—burst appendixes, broken bones, the usual catalogue of farm-boy disasters. But for Sadie it was different. For Sadie, hospitals were where you went to lose someone slowly, and she’d already lost enough.