Page 24 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

I parked, ignoring the crunch of the undercarriage as I navigated the potholes. The porch didn’t look any better than it had an hour ago—if anything, it looked worse now that it was in direct sunlight and not shade. The whole place looked like it was waiting for permission to fall over. I got out, grabbed a tape measure and a legal pad from behind my seat, and trudged up the sagging steps. I wasn’t sure how long Buddy would be admitted, but the last thing he needed was to come home to a death trap.

When I opened the front door, the same smell that hit me when I was there earlier slapped me in the face once again. There was the usual old-person funk—dust, mothballs, the sweet rotten tang of oranges gone bad—but underneath it, there was something sharper, almost chemical. Maybe cleaning fluid, maybe something leaking from under the sink. In the living room, a patchwork of blankets covered the old recliner, flanked by a walker and two canes. The walker had two tennis balls on the back legs, the canes had rolls of duct tape holding the handles together.

I shouldered my way through the house, peering into each room. The bathroom door hung on a single hinge. The kitchen floor had a soft patch that felt like walking on a wet sponge. Every horizontal surface was stacked with mail, takeout containers, and pill bottles. Twice I found another taped-up leak, the kind of band-aid solution only an ex-rancher would be proud of.

After opening all the first-floor windows to air out the house, I walked back outside onto the porch and started my list. I wrote down everything, even the things I had zero intention of tackling today: new porch footings, stair balusters, railing. Replace the kitchen linoleum. Check for mold. Add a handrail to the bathroom. Fix the front door so it latches instead of needing a kick to shut. I lost track of time, totally absorbed, only stopping when the familiar vibration of my phone pulled my head up.

It was Damon, calling for the third time this morning. I let it go to voicemail, but he tried again immediately, so I answered, “Yeah.”

“Hey, Loverboy.”

I ignored the moniker. “What’s up?”

“You bailed on your ten-thirty ride,” he stated, slow and deliberate, like he was talking to a problem child.

Shit. I totally blanked on the family I had scheduled to take out that morning. That was so unlike me. I never missed a ride.

My brother continued, “Mom said you were at the hospital, but Fernando said Angie called the stables when she couldn’t get a hold of you, so unless you were playing hide-and-seek at the E.R.”

“Damon—”

He steamrolled right over me. “Don’t worry, I covered. But if you want to keep your job, or you know, the family business, maybe set an alarm or something?”

I almost laughed. All my life, Damon had been the one who needed reminders and wake-up calls, always running late or spacing on details. The fact that he was now the organized one would have been funny if it didn’t make me feel like I was losing my mind. I tried to keep my voice even. “There’s nothing to cover. We stopped by Buddy’s. Sadie needed to get him some things.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, like he was parsing my tone for blood in the water. “Right. So where are you now, then?”

I glanced around, feeling sick to my stomach at the state of disrepair the place was in. “I’m back at Buddy’s.”

“What are you doing there?”

It was none of my brother’s business. I lived my life on a need-to-know basis, and most people didn’t need to know shit. “I’ll be back in time for my 4:00 p.m.”

I hung up before he could say anything else and stood up to head inside to get to work. I had a lot to get done in the next few hours. When I did, I heard a faint whining sound. I glanced around, and that’s when I saw a ball of orange fur next to my boot. It wasn’t until it opened its mouth, trying to cry or meow, that my brain computed it was a kitten. It continued opening its mouth, but barely any sound was coming out.

“Hey there?” I bent down and ran my hand over the kitten’s back. It was basically fur and bones. The tiny thing was shivering either from the temperature or fear. I picked it up and did a sex check. It was a girl.

She opened her mouth once more, either in protest or appreciation for being picked up, but again, no sound came out.

“Okay, come on, let’s get you inside.” As I walked back in, I checked her body and didn’t see any signs of fleas or ticks. From what I saw, there were none. Her gums looked good, very pink, so that pretty much ruled out anemia, internal bleeding, and dehydration. Still, to be on the safe side, I’d get her in to see the vet at the Ranch.

I finished examining my new friend, who lifted her head and tried once again to say her piece, but only a tiny squeak sounded.

“You’re like a little mouse. Aren’t you? Let’s get you something to eat and drink, Minnie Mouse.”

I headed back inside with Minnie in my hand, she fit in my palm. I filled a bowl of water and found a can of tuna and set them both on the kitchen floor. Her paws had barely hit the tile before she was devouring the food. Poor thing was probably starving. I sat with her while she ate, then rinsed out her bowls. Once she had a full belly, I made her a little bed with a blanket in a patch of sunlight and told her, “Stay there. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Her response was to lift her back leg and begin to bathe herself. I grinned as I turned to face the project at hand. I set my phone on the counter and took a slow lap through the house, inspecting the stuff I’d missed the first time—broken baseboards, cracked windowpanes, a leak under the bathroom sink that might have been older than I was. It was the kind of damage that happened slowly, in increments too small to notice until the whole thing was ready to collapse. It made me think of Buddy, the Buddy who I always saw as a superhero who chewed tobacco, lying on the floor helpless for hours, days, until they found him. It broke my heart.

I found a box of garbage bags under the sink and pulled my work gloves out of my back pocket. I was half a room deep into clearing out the living room—sorting mail, tossing out food containers, stacking the pill bottles by expiration date—when I heard the crunch of tires in the gravel, then the familiar heavy slam of a door. A shadow passed along the porch, blocking the thin rays of sun that managed to make it through the cloudy glass window.

After removing my gloves, I wiped my hands on my jeans and stepped out onto the porch, squinting against the glare. Damon stood at the bottom of the steps, his looming shadow more solid than the rotting wood under his boots. He took it in with a long, slow sweep of his gaze: the peeling paint, the splintered railing, the sad little line of dead succulents in cracked pots. Then he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the midmorning sun.

“Holy shit. When’s the last time you’ve been out here?” he asked.

I shrugged, feeling the weight of the house behind me. “Years.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, sizing up the situation. Then, without further comment, he reached behind his back and yanked out his own pair of gloves. The same battered Carhartt pair he’d had since high school. Damon was a lot of things, but he didn’t go anywhere unprepared.