Saving Rain(34)

“Harry, do I look like the kinda guy who would live on Daffodil Lane?”

His gaze traveled over my face, as if he were really considering the question. “You look like the kind of guy who’s getting a second chance at life. Now, come on. Let’s check it out.”

We got out of his Mazda, and Harry opened the mailbox, where Connie had told him the key would be waiting.

She had said the place was a little run-down and could use some TLC. The former owners had walked away from it after no longer being able to afford the bills, and because Connie decided it was better to let someone fix it up rather than have it go to hell in a handbasket, she offered it to me at a monthly cost of two weeks’ pay at her husband’s grocery store.

“I can’t go any lower than that,” she had said. “So, if you find you can’t afford that and the utilities—”

“I’ll make it work,” I’d promised her, just happy to have somewhere to go. Somewhere to call mine.

And now, looking at 1111 Daffodil Lane, I was filled with even more of a determination to make it work. Because this place—with its peeling siding, warped little stoop, and broken front window—needed me as much as I needed it.

The three steps creaked and bowed beneath my feet, and the door needed a good push after being unlocked. The interior wasn’t much better than the outside. Stained carpet, flaking paint, dirty appliances, and a bathroom I would’ve gotten written up for at Wayward greeted us.

Harry stood at the crusty kitchen counter as I finished my tour of the bleak-looking place. His face was locked in a permanent grimace, like even he was ready to drop the Mr. Positivity act.

“So, uh …” He rubbed a hand over his chin as his eyes frisked the living room-slash-dining room once again and the questionable brown stains on the carpet. “Listen … if you wanna say screw it, I wouldn’t—”

“I like it.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, sighing exhaustedly. I was wearing the poor guy out.

“Soldier, you don’t have to say that just because—”

“Listen, is it the lap of luxury? No. Does it need some serious cleaning and work? Yeah. Could they use this place as the set for the next Texas Chain Saw Massacre movie? Absolutely. But what else do I have going on, Harry? I mean, apart from sweeping some floors and scrubbing a toilet at a grocery store, my schedule is pretty clear.” I looked around the grimy kitchen and nodded. “And honestly … even as is, it’s better than living with Diane.”

Harry wasn’t convinced. He released a long breath that left his shoulders drooping and his head shaking. “Look, if you wanna give it a shot, that's fine. I'm just saying—”

“Harry”—I held up a hand, already thinking about what I could do to spruce up that shitty living room—“I'm good. Now, let's go check out that grocery store.”

***

For Christmas, Harry had not only given me the phone, but also his old bike.

“If I got on that thing now, I'd probably break a hip,” he'd said even though I knew it was bullshit.

Harry might've been well into his sixties, but the man could hold his own in a fistfight.

I would know; I'd seen it happen.

So, as we drove the two minutes from the trailer park to The Fisch Market, Harry was sure to point out that the bike ride would be an easy one.

“It'll be a pretty easy walk too, if you want to take the bike back,” I mentioned with a smirk.

“You don't wanna walk during a blizzard. Don't be stupid.”

I snorted. “Harry, I don’t wanna ride a damn bike in a blizzard either, but I'll do what I gotta do.”

We parked the car and got out, and that was when the light shining over River Canyon dimmed, casting shadows where I’d once thought there were none. As we walked to the entrance, a blonde woman with a few young girls in tow took one look at me and shielded her kids with an arm, steering them out of my way. At first, I thought maybe she was just maneuvering them, instructing them to watch for others and whatever. But then I heard the whispers.

“That's the guy Mayor Fischer told us about,” the woman whispered to another nearby lady, this one with black hair.

“The guy who was in prison? How do you know?”

The blonde nodded. “She said he was big and hard to miss.”

“Didn't she say he killed someone? Does Officer Kinney know he's here?”

“Yeah. He said he'd keep an eye on him, but we should probably watch out for the kids. Just in case.”

I wasn't an inconspicuous guy by any means. At six foot seven, it was hard for me to blend in, and I sure as hell wasn't going to win any games of hide-and-seek anytime soon. The height and size had their advantages sometimes—I could always reach the highest shelf, and nobody had dared to fuck with me at Wayward—but now, I felt like I stood out like a giant, throbbing sore thumb.

Harry patted my back reassuringly. “Hey, don't worry about it. They'll learn.”

“It's fine,” I muttered, pushing the door open and walking into the store.

“They just don't know you yet.”

“I get it.”

And I did. Once upon a time, if I'd heard that some guy moved into town who'd been locked up for ending someone's life, I'd have jumped right on that rumor train with everyone else. But that didn't mean being on the other side of the rumors didn't suck. In fact, it hurt. It hurt a lot. But what was I going to do about it, other than to be patient and hope they gave me a chance?