Tripping Over The Edge Of Night

By Layla Dorine

Going home had never felt so wrong.

 

When Derrick received the phone call informing him of his mother's death, it felt like the bottom had dropped out of his entire world. Gone was every hope and ideal he'd left home with, replaced with the bitter realization that he'd run out of time, run out of plans, and was desperately close to running out of give-a-damn.

It doesn't help to come face to face with his older brother, Ray, who'd spent much of his childhood either ignoring him, ditching him, or complaining about his very existence. It's enough to send him right back on the road again, or at least, it would have been, were it not for a house, a cat named Slash, and Mason, his best friend-with-benefits, now the head librarian in town and hot as sin.

 

It was hard enough leaving Mace in the first place, but a second time, well, he didn't think he had it in him to be so heartless. Twelve years ago, he'd slipped away under the cover of darkness, without even a single goodbye. Now, standing on the edge of night, looking down at the tiny town he'd fled, Derrick is left with one burning question:

 

Can the door to the past ever be closed enough to allow space for the future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desolate Press
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223820659

Book preview

Chapter 1

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The acrid smell of burned onions and stale marijuana permeated the hallway as the wail of a frustrated child echoed off thin plaster walls. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derrick fought down the duel sensations of nausea and pounding headache as he fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Inside was cold beer and a flashing answering machine, the latter he chose to ignore until he was on his third bottle.

Check’s in the mail, he grumbled as the irritatingly perky bill collector urged him to submit his past due payment for the cell phone he’d run over last week.

The second message was much like the first. It seemed like all anybody wanted these days was money while he lived with a perpetually empty wallet and a series of bullshit excuses as to why the damned check hadn’t been sent. They were catching onto him, though. Last week, one little bastard had actually called him on the fact that he’d twice used his mother’s funeral as an excuse why he was late. He’d snarled that he was adopted, to piss off and leave him to grieve both of them in peace. At least there were only few payments left on that bill. He was sick of their bullshit.

Ray’s voice on the answering machine jarred Derrick from his thoughts. Inhaling, he choked on his beer, sputtered and coughed so hard it drowned out every other word.

‘Think,’ ‘home,’ ‘mama,’ ‘week,’ were about all he heard. Leaving the beer on the end table, he crossed the room to the machine, a cold sense of dread filling him as he pressed the button to play the messages again. Quickly, he deleted the first two in order to get to the third.

Hey, Derrick, it’s Ray. I think you’d better get back here. Mama’s in the hospital. The doctors don’t think she’ll last the week. They’re advising us to say our goodbyes while we can.

Mashing the button, he played it again. His brother’s voice drowned out the whining pleas of the kids next door.

Better get back here... get back here... get back here...

It echoed like an endless loop, a mantra as the walls faded, reds melting to browns and gold, the autumn pattern of vivid trim in rooms smelling of cider and cinnamon. Something banged upstairs, loud and metallic, like the screen door mama was forever nagging them not to slam. It jarred him into action. Beer forgotten on the end table, he rushed to his room, fumbling to grasp the backpack behind the door, never far, never put away. He could fit his life into the ragged depths, leave the pre-furnished apartment as hollow and dusty as it had been when he moved in. Top drawer, check, scooped out in a single armload and stuffed in the bottom of the bag, a little bulkier than the last time. He really needed to stop buying t-shirts. Second drawer was easier, just socks and underwear he rarely wore.

A heavy thunk drew his gaze to the object that had fallen by his foot. Heart pounding, he knelt, fingers trembling as he reached to pick up his father’s knife, remembering another call, a rainy night, nearly laying the bike down twice as he’d torn out of a city 475 miles to the west and much further south. Closer then, but something about seeing that weathered face framed by a casket had sent him fleeing much farther than he’d ever run before. Too much like his own, too many things unsaid... too many things said. Grasping the knife, he gently tucked it into the zippered pocket on the inside of the bag, then moved to the bathroom to pack up there. A quick glance in the mirror reminded him he hadn’t showered yet. He brushed at a smudge of oil on his cheek and sighed. The rest of his packing would have to wait.

Steam from the shower soon filled the tiny bathroom. He stripped and shoved his dirty clothes on top of the clean. There would be time enough to sort it all out once he got there. The first smack of heat drew a growl from between clenched teeth and he had to brace one hand against the wall to steady himself. Lowering his head, he let the warmth wash over him, a moment of forced calm.

Come home... come home... come home...

The echo of words brought a renewed sense of urgency and he flipped his hair back, rubbed at his eyes, and then reached for the soap and wash rag. Scrubbing away the grime left over by a shift spent trying to wrangle an old Thunderbird back into working order, he tried not to think too hard. Soft cloth rubbed over vivid tattoos, the details clearer without the grime. He could still recall the prickly sting of the needles going in and out, the slow drag of pain against his skin. His mother had wept the first time she’d seen them, back when there had only been three. It was hard to imagine what she’d think when she saw the full sleeves. Would she even recognize him?

His eyes itched. He scrubbed a hand across them, made it worse with the residue of soap. The water would wash it away, along with the tears and the grime he vigorously scrubbed at. His skin was a brilliant red by the time he stepped out. Toweling off quickly, he dragged clean clothes from the bottom of the bag, filled their spot with toiletries. The rough scratch of two-day stubble against the back of his hand grated. He could have used a shave, but there wasn’t time for that.

Sopping hair soaked the back of his shirt. It would dry easily enough in the wind. He pulled on worm motorcycle boots and a faded leather jacket, popped the collar, zipped it up. Nights like these were cold in Minnesota, different from the sticky heat of Texas, or the breezy evenings of his Smoky Mountain home.

Something caught his eye, the smallest sparkle of silver hanging from a nail beside the door. Slipping it on, he felt the cold, smooth metal brush against his throat, the weight of the silver dollar familiar around his neck. Sighing, he could almost picture his mother’s tearful blue eyes as she placed it there the first time he returned home.

Your grandpa gave that to me. He said he wanted me to never forget that a dollar was more than just currency.

Five years on the road he’d been so low on cash he’d considered selling it, but the man at the pawn shop said the same thing as the coin dealer, that the value to collectors was greatly diminished due to the hole punched through it and all they could offer was what its weight was worth in silver. He’d debated that, but in the end, the memory of his mother’s trembling hands, and the warmth transferred from her body to his through that shiny piece of metal, had been enough to make him keep it. Now, it was his most cherished possession.

Keys, wallet, he was attaching the chain to his jeans when the phone rang. One quick glance around told him he’d gotten everything that mattered. Kitchen crap could be replaced at the dollar store wherever he ended up next, and nothing in the living room belonged to him. It was almost like he’d never been there. Ray’s voice over the answering machine filled the room as he stripped the key from the ring, intent on dropping it in the box on the way to his Harley. Another benefit of renting week to week.

Derrick, I don’t know if you’ve left yet, but mama’s gone. She just passed away in her sleep.

The backpack fell from his grasp along with the key. Too late, he was always too late. Everything around him took on a smoky, hazy hue, blurring as he reminded himself to breathe. The pain in his chest made it difficult, the drowning, choking sensation forcing him to fight for every lungful of air. The room shifted, tilted a bit, and before he knew what was happening, he was sitting on the floor, staring at the ragged brown carpet, his brother’s words rolling through his mind.

Mama’s gone. Gone. Gone.

Cold tears slithered down his cheeks, but he lacked the strength to wipe them away. Did this mean he was an orphan now or was that just for kids? Why hadn’t she told him she was sick in any of the letters she’d sent? They were all about the knitting club and the new restaurant in town that used farm to table practices and had become a favored meeting place for her and all her friends. In her letters, she’d keep him apprised of what books her book group was reading, and sometimes, he’d head down to the local library and see if they had a copy, if only because spending a rainy day reading had been their favorite way of spending time together.

He remembered climbing into her lap when he was small, cuddling against her shoulder, and listening, fascinated at the worlds that spilled forth from the pages. From a young age he’d fallen in love with the magic, mystery, thrill, and drama of those literary worlds, devouring books once he could read them on his own, challenging himself to read above his grade level, and always reading more than the recommended number of words per quarter. Hell, sometimes he’d finished the annual requirements before winter break, and still kept going, earning an outstanding reader award every year, which his mother proudly stuck to the refrigerator.

Not that books had been his only love. He’d excelled on the football field too, those Friday nights in rain and snow made a little easier by his parents’ faces in the crowd and the thermos of hot cocoa his mama always supplied him. She’d been his biggest cheerleader, and when he’d announced that the girls who tried to drape themselves all over him held no appeal, she’d hugged him and told him it didn’t matter who he loved as long as that person loved and cherished him.

Love. The tears flowed faster the moment it dawned on him that the last person in the world who loved him was gone. There would be no more letters, no more lumpy woolen sweaters hand knitted with love, no more Thanksgiving dinners to pop in on, no more warm, welcoming presence to great him on those rare occasions when he finally made it back home. No more home.

That last part was like a knife to the ribs. With fumbling fingers he grasped at the backpack, hauled it close, hugged it and the four sweaters it contained like they were a lifeline, buried his face against the ragged cloth, and wept until there were no more tears left to give. There was no way to know how long he sat there, minutes, hours, but eventually his back protested the hunched position and his aching ass reminded him that the worn carpet didn’t provide much in the way of padding.

Unfurling himself from that position took time and a coordinated effort between his mind and body that he wasn’t sure he would be able to manage. With slow, deliberate movements he grabbed the edge of the couch and struggled to haul himself to his feet, the strength in his arms failing him twice before he could manage it. The answering machine still flashed, but there was no reason to hit repeat, every word was burned into his soul.

Mama’s gone.

In a daze he shambled to the door, fumbled with the locks, patted his pockets, frantic for a moment, until he remembered dropping the key. His eyes landed on the answering machine when he went back to retrieve it, little red light mocking him. Why hadn’t Ray called sooner? Why hadn’t he hit the road as soon as he’d received the message, instead of taking the time to shower and put on clean clothes?

’Cause it wouldn’t have mattered, the voice in his head screamed. She’d have been gone before you even reached the highway. Dejected, he picked up the key and trudged back to the door, leaving the latest in a string of cheap apartments and rooming houses behind.

The air outside smelled of snow, a welcome change from the marijuana and onion stench inside. Drawing in a deep breath, he fought to center himself, get the backpack strapped securely to the back of the bike and his helmet on, wishing he had chaps, but as bulky as they were, they’d have taken up all the space in his saddlebags.

At least the cold would keep him awake. The roar of the machine, usually so soothing, did nothing to calm him down. Over a thousand miles stood between him and the place he’d grown up. The beautiful Smoky Mountains would still be alive with summer blooms right about now, and yet, there would be nothing joyful about this homecoming.

He pointed the bike south, shivering the moment the winds started piercing through his clothes. The jacket was some help, though he paused after less than a mile to zip it. There was nothing he could do for his lower half, so he gritted his teeth and gutted it out, watching the miles inch past as he rolled through the night.

Twenty-seven hours later, he pulled up in front of the house he’d been raised in, the light burning in the kitchen a bit of a shock to him, but then, he hadn’t been sure what to expect. The whole way down had been a blur, questions flashing quicker than he could latch onto answers. What happened next? The funeral, or was that something he and Ray would have to plan? He tried to recall what they’d done for his father, another death that had happened so abruptly, it had taken him months of wandering before it fully kicked in.

Dusty, road weary, and exhausted, he trudged up the steps, backpack over his shoulder, hesitating with the key halfway to the lock, wondering what he’d find inside. Had she fallen? Had she lain in the house for hours, or even days, before someone had found her? Would the remanence of her fate be awaiting him on the other side of the door? It was enough to make him wish he could hop back on the bike and disappear somewhere. It wasn’t as if there was anyone left who’d be itching to track him down.

After the funeral, he told himself as he slipped the key in the lock and let himself in, stepping into a foyer that had changed little since the last time he’d been home. When had that been, anyway, he mused to himself as he removed his boots and set them off to the side, adhering to that rule despite the fact that his mother would never again pop around the corner and chastise him for forgetting.

That pain in his chest returned, not that it had ever left completely, but somewhere around southern Iowa it had eased up enough that he could draw a full breath. Now, he leaned against the wall, eyes on the floor, terrified to take another step, the silence reminding him of the emptiness of the place.

No more Mama singing while she cooked, barefoot in the kitchen dancing to whatever song had popped in her head. No more warm aromas of baked goods permeating every room, the sugary goodness tantalizing his senses, drawing him into that hub of laughter and conversation. No more holiday decorations, the elves perched on every shelf in the house. No more snowmen grinning from every corner and crevice. It was the end of everything. What the hell had made him think there would be time to come back and enjoy everything he missed once he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do?

Every muscle quivered as he made his way up the hall, intent on a glass of lemonade and giving Ray a call. Then sleep, ‘cause he’d been up for almost forty hours and every cell in his body screamed that it was exhausted and on the verge of giving out completely. Those last few miles had been accomplished on sheer force of will and grim determination.

On trembling legs, he stumbled into the kitchen, blinking at the sight before him. Ray, a bottle of whiskey by his left hand, an empty bottle by his right, staring glassy eyed at him from his seat at the table.

’Bout time you showed up, Ray slurred, the undercurrent of anger and frustration that always seemed to be there whenever they spoke was even more prominent tonight.

What are you doing here? he asked, placing his backpack beside the microwave stand before dropping into the seat across from his brother, lemonade momentary forgotten.

Waiting for you. Took you long enough. Thought you were only twenty hours away.

That’s without taking a break, unless you wanted to get a phone call telling you I was smeared all over the highway.

Don’t you think there’s been enough death in this family to last us awhile?

He punctuated his words with a guzzle straight from the bottle, and Derrick cringed, imaging the burn and wondering how his brother could chug it like that.

You should have been here, Ray muttered as he set the bottle down. She asked for you. She wanted to know where you were. If you were okay. She made me promise to bring you home and tell you she loved you, not that it’s ever mattered to you.

Growling, Derrick felt his exhaustion give way to a hot burst of anger as he smacked his hands down on the table, causing the whiskey bottles to rattle.

"Why didn’t you call and tell me she was sick? Derrick growled. I started packing the moment I got your first message on the answering machine. I’d have been here if you’d let me know something was going on."

Face flushing red, Ray came half out of his seat, firsts clenched. Derrick waited for him to throw a punch, throw a bottle, but all he did was snarl whiskey breath in Derrick’s face.

You should have been here regardless! Ray snapped. I hope whatever you were out there doing was worth all the worry and heartache you put Mama through. She needed us here, especially after Pops died, but you couldn’t be bothered to stick around for even a week!

Sighing, Derrick scrubbed a hand over his face. He was too tired for this shit, nerves too frayed, and he kept having to remind himself that this was his brother and they were in their dead mama’s kitchen and no way could he disrespect her memory by cracking his brother in the face no matter how much he was itching to.

You want me to tell you I couldn’t handle it? Fine, I couldn’t handle it, Derrick admitted wearily. I hit the road and I wandered the country until I could wrap my head around the fact that we’d lost him.

And you think I could handle it? Ray ranted. "You think Mama could handle it? You never think about anyone but yourself. It’s always about what Derrick wants, what Derrick needs, though in a way, I blame mom and dad for that ’cause they spoiled you rotten and you never learned to appreciate a damn thing, did you?"

Derrick’s fingers dug into the wood, a mantra going through his head, reminding him not to choke the hell out of his brother.

I appreciated plenty, he grumbled between grit teeth, body tense, shaking with a burst of adrenaline, endorphins, and fury that was making his head ache. You don’t know shit about me, never have, and I doubt you ever will. You want to think the worst of me, fine, go ahead, it’s not like I’m going to be around long anyway. After the funeral, you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again, I can promise you that.

Snorting, Ray lowered himself back in the seat and finished off the bottle. Should have figured you wouldn’t stick around. It’s the same old shit with you. When is it going to end?

Derrick threw his hands up, frustrated and tired as hell of trying to figure out his brother’s double speak. You know what, talking to you while you’re drunk is making me want to drink.

Fine, here, Ray replied, reaching down beside him and lifting a bottle of tequila from a brown bag on the floor. Go ahead, we can toast to whatever the hell has been going on in your life for the past few years, may it always be a poor substitute to the family you kicked to the curb.

Fuck you, Derrick snapped, even as he snatched the bottle from his brother’s hands and made short work of getting it open. God that shit burned, but he kept on swallowing, hoping for blessed oblivion, or better still, to wake up and discover that every moment from the time he’d stepped foot in his old apartment to now, had been nothing but a horrible nightmare.

Maybe, one day, you’ll be honest and tell me what we did to make you hate us all so much, Ray muttered as he lay his head on the worn wood of that old table.

Tipping the bottle up further, Derrick chased the numbness he knew it would bring as soon as the alcohol hit. Shouldn’t be long, considering there was little in his system as it was. Food simply hadn’t appealed, not the smell or the taste. That last burger he’d eaten had left him vomiting in a trash can, vowing not to bother until he could settle the twisted knot in his gut and the burning anxiety that roared through him. God, if Mom could see us now, she’d be so disappointed in us on so many levels, he thought as he set the bottle down, half empty. In her last few letters she’d urged him to reach out to Ray to finally lay to rest the animosity between the two. Only problem was, the animosity had always come from Ray, all Derrick had ever tried to do was stay out of his way and do as little as possible to be a burden or a source of frustration.

Laying his head on the table, Derrick closed his eyes, his brother’s soft, drunken snores lulling him to sleep. His last thought, before the alcohol swirled with the exhaustion in his brain, was that it was a hell of a thing to bond over, easing their grief over their mother’s death by getting pickled with booze. Damn but she deserved more than that from them.

Chapter 2

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Sharp reflexes prevented Derrick from catching a door to the face as they stormed out of the lawyer’s office just two short days after their mother’s funeral. Head reeling, he struggled to comprehend what they’d just been told while Ray fumed and muttered curses, causing people to scurry from their path.

How could their parents have ever thought it would be a good idea to leave him the house? That was kind of a permanent, life-changing thing and it was gonna take a while to wrap his head around it, if Ray didn’t knock it off first. Shouldn’t he have known? Derrick mused, squinting at the brightness of the afternoon sun as he fished his shades from his pocket and slipped them on.

I swear to God, if you rent it out and let strangers roam through that house, I will kick your ass from here to Sunday, Ray growled as they stalked down the steps.

So, what the fuck do you want me to do, leave it sit there and collect dust?

How about you try doing what Mom and Dad wanted for once and live in it!

Ray’s roar drew stares from an obviously pregnant woman pushing a toddler in a stroller. She hurried away from the commotion as birds launched themselves out of nearby trees, frightened by the exchange.

What the fuck, Ray, I thought you wanted me gone? Derrick mused as he fished in his pocket for a cigarette that Ray promptly snatched from his hand, tossed in the dirt, then ground beneath his bootheel. Gee thanks, I was planning to smoke that.

Those God damned things’ll kill ya, Ray shot back, smacking the pack from Derrick’s hand and stomping that too. Besides, I thought you quit?

Derrick just grunted, annoyed. He had quit, but dealing with Ray and funeral arrangements for the past few days had driven him to take it up again. Rubbing his temples, he tried to calm the latest pound and ache behind his eyes before it made him nauseous.

I never once said I wanted you to leave so don’t go putting that bullshit on me, Ray grumbled. That’s all on you. You’re the one who’s got to live with what you put Mom and Pops through. I still can’t believe that after all that, they left you the house, knowing how much I’ve been struggling to keep shit together and pay off the damn mortgage Wendy stuck me with.

Then contest it, Derrick grumbled. Sounds like you’re itching to anyway.

Snarling, Ray fixed him with a glare that could have melted stone, not that Derrick cared. "It was a transfer on death deed! There’s nothing I can contest about it."

Then quit your bitching already! Fuck, my head hurts enough without you adding to it, Derrick grumbled. Just stop talking in circles already and tell me what the hell you want from me.

What I want from you? Nothing. Not one God damn thing. But it would be nice for you to take a moment and think about why our folks might have done what they did.

What’s that ’sposed to do?

Maybe open your eyes for a change? How am I supposed to know? I’m not you. I can’t get in that thick skull of yours and figure out what makes you tick. I wish I could. Maybe then I’d have known what to say to mama when she asked why you wouldn’t stay.

Shoulders slumped, Derrick sat on the cold stone wall, feeling defeated. "I wanted to make them proud of me. I’d planned to make something of myself, then come back home, help fix up the place, help them with whatever they needed. It just never seemed like time was in my favor."

Which should have told you something! Ray snapped.

Yeah? What?

That they were already proud of you! For fuck’s sake, they loved you! Nothing you did was wrong in their eyes, except leaving. That was the one thing they didn’t understand. Not when you had a chance to go to college and turned it down without any explanation, and not when you were offered jobs just a few blocks from the house and turned those down, too. Now that confused the hell out of them. Hell, it confused the hell out of me.

College was never an option.

Why? You had the grades and you had the brains, so what the hell stopped you?

Like you don’t know!

If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing out here asking!

Shoving himself away from the wall, Derrick crowded into his brother’s space. That day at Hatter’s Pond, when I fell through the ice, why’d you pull me out?

Derrick watched Ray scowl, blink and try to make sense of the rapid shift of conversation.

W-what’s that got to do with anything? Ray sputtered, staring at Derrick like he’d grown a second head.

Answer the question.

You answer mine!

Smirking, Derrick stepped past his brother, heading for the Harley beside the curb. He didn’t look back until he’d slung one leg over the bike, fingers poised over the starter, ready to fire it up. Ray stood where Derrick had left him, staring after him. As soon as their eyes locked, Derrick called out.

You shouldn’t have done it, Ray. All of you would have been better off if you’d just let me drown.

Before his brother could respond, he fired up the bike and rocketed down the street, wind whipping through the tangled strands of his hair as he busted the speed limit to pieces and didn’t give a damn. Pointing the bike east, he raced out of town, winding his way up the mountain to Lookout Point, the icy wind chilling his face and making his fingers feel stiff on the throttle.

Shoulda put on gloves, his inner voice chided. At least pretend you have a brain even if you don’t use it most of the time. Maybe one day his subconscious would catch up with what the rest of him already knew. That sometimes pain was necessary; sometimes it was the only reminder that he was alive and capable of feeling anything.

He was shivering by the time he reached the old observation station at the top of the mountain and the pole mounted binoculars that pointed down into the valley below. This time of year, the sun glowing around the wildflowers was breathtaking. He sprawled on a bench and stared out over the mountains he’d always loved.

How was he supposed to tell his brother that leaving here gutted him each and every time? It was hard enough to find words for casual conversation with Ray without letting all his frayed edges show, but to talk about something serious? To answer the question at the root of everything he’d done for the past twelve years? That would be akin to giving his brother the knife with which to rip him apart. At this point the last thing Ray needed was more ammunition.

So, what the fuck do you want me to do, leave it sit there and collect dust?

How about you try doing what Mom and Dad wanted for once and live in it?

Was that really what they would have wanted from me? he mused, trying to wrap his head around what it would be like to no longer live week to week, be able to forge friendships and run into people he didn’t mind pausing to talk to, even in the middle of the grocery store. Rootless, wandering, he’d seen forty-two states, some of them more than once, making his choice of where to go based off a coin flip or the random toss of a dart.

You’re never been rootless, his inner voice screamed, and yeah, okay, he’d give it that. He’d always known he could come back here, move into his old room until he got himself set up in a place of his own, but he’d never taken advantage of it because ... because...

They loved you!

But giving them his love in return had never been enough for him. He’d always hoped to give them more. Make things right. But how was he supposed to make amends with ghosts?

It would be nice for you to take a moment and think about why Mom and Pops might have done what they did.

The thing was, he didn’t have to think about it, he knew. It had been in every letter his mother had written him. Every phone conversation he’d had with his pops before he’d passed away. It had been there at his old man’s funeral when his mama had clung to his hand and pleaded with him to stick around and catch up with his old friends who still asked about him whenever they saw her. Stay and put his talents to good use right there in town.

Secondary Roads had been hiring, needing a good mechanic to help keep their wide variety of equipment on the road. By then he’d been certified as a master mechanic with a second certification in heavy machinery. Landing a county job would have meant he’d be set for life, but some twisted part of his brain had pushed him to leave anyway, telling him he could do better on a city crew.

Okay, so maybe the delusions of grandeur he’d left home with had rendered him blind to everything but the one picture he’d painted in his mind. Coming home to pay off all his parents bills then starting his own custom body shop. A pipe dream really. Between rent, gas, utilities, cell phone, food, and the occasional replacement clothes or hospital visit, in addition to sending money home to his folks, cash tended to go out faster than it came in. Seemed like there was a shortage of affordable rental housing all across the nation, because it was rare he landed in a place where he could sock cash away for a rainy day. Something he was now certain his folks had known and hoped to help him avoid, only he’d been too headstrong to hear what they’d been trying to say.

I swear to God, if you rent it out and let strangers roam through that house, I will kick your ass from here to Sunday.

Truth be told, he’d just as soon kick his own ass as let people trample all over his parents’ memory. That Ray didn’t know that spoke volumes about what was wrong between them. But was he ready for lawnmowers and property taxes, making sure the walkway was shoveled and the leaves were raked up? And if he wasn’t, what would happen to the house? Leaving it to collect dust seemed as disrespectful as allowing people who might not give a shit about tracking mud on the carpets or scuffing the walls to live in it, which left him with one course of action.

Live in it himself.

Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure up a hundred reasons why it would be a bad idea and couldn’t even get past one. Home had been ... amazing, filled with the scent of great food, echoing with laughter, the site of tree houses and backyard forts, birthday and pool parties, somersaults on the trampoline, and weekend barbeques, the meat smoked so tender it practically fell off the bone. The stone retaining wall around the property that Ray and his old man had built together had given the yard a sort of insular feel, like he and his friends were in their own little world when they played back there.

He tried to imagine how different it would be, to sit in the silence of an autumn day, beer in one hand, book in the other, chicken on the grill, and potato salad chilling in the fridge, provided he could figure out how to make it. It had a peaceful quality to it, albeit a bit lonely. But then, he’d spent the last twelve years perfecting the art of being a loner, so he failed to see what difference it would make.

Besides, there were practical things to consider, like never having to pay rent again or sleep on a picnic bench in a campground while prowling the newspapers for a place to stay. He’d still have to find a job in or around town, preferably someplace not too far away from the house. It tended to get cold as fuck on winter evenings and a time was sure to come when riding the Harley to work would no longer be an option. Still, he’d never had a problem landing something that paid, even if it wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed.

Stability, that’s what being given the house offered him. A chance to potentially reconnect with what he’d had as a kid. That feeling of belonging he’d never encountered anywhere else. Staring down over the valley, he was reminded of what it looked like covered in snow, like some damned Christmas painting, all lit up with twinkling multi-colored lights. The yearly tradition of hunting for the tree, sledding down the hill on the edge of town, playing hockey on Miller’s pond, and paintball out in the