Ray pulled a box from the refrigerator and opened it, revealing a cake that was the perfect size for three. The sight of it brought on the same emotions I had felt a year ago, when Harry gave me a slice of pizza on my thirtieth birthday.
God, how was that only one year ago?
It hit me all at once, all of a sudden, that it was possible for guys like me to be surrounded by good people. People unrelated by blood. People who’d made the choice to know me and like me, simply for being myself, despite the shit I’d been convicted of.
“Are you okay?” Ray asked, eyeing me with concern.
Realizing my eyes had begun to tear up, I cleared my throat and blinked them away. “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “All good.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile before calling Noah back to the table.
They sang “Happy Birthday,” and we ate the cake, which was delicious. After, it was Noah’s bedtime and mine, and I had a cat to feed. So, I wished them both a good night and counted the thirteen steps between her place and mine, knowing that it undoubtedly was a very, very good night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A MONSTER NEXT DOOR
Little by little, the trailer started to look more like a home and less like a condemned wreck.
With every paycheck, I bought something else to help the renovation along—a can of paint here, an area rug there. I snagged a hand-me-down couch from Mrs. Henderson and an old coffee table from Harry’s other daughter, Pamela. On my way home one day, I found a few perfectly good lamps on the side of the road, and on another occasion, I uncovered a decent dining table that just needed some sanding and a fresh coat of paint.
After a couple of months of working at The Fisch Market, I’d saved enough money to get myself an actual mattress. And just like that, the bedroom looked more like what it was intended to be and less like a dungeon.
Needless to say, of everything I’d accomplished in my life—the good stuff, I mean—I was the proudest of this.
By March, the interior was looking decent. It wasn’t done—the kitchen was still in desperate need of an overhaul with its shit-brown cabinets and peeling Formica countertop—but it was passable as a home. And with the snow starting to melt and the days beginning to warm, I figured it was time to start planning what I was gonna do outside.
Noah had ideas too.
“You should have a garden,” he declared as we stood outside together, assessing the exterior and what little land I had to work with. “Mom’s always wanted a garden, but she doesn’t have time.”
“So, why should I have one?” I challenged despite agreeing with him.
I had loved gardening when I was at Wayward, and the idea of growing my own food sounded better than paying for it.
Howard liked to jack up the prices on produce—likely to fund his wife’s addiction to fancy clothes and purses—and I wasn’t making enough money to regularly cover my desire for fresh veggies.
“Because I like tomatoes,” Noah replied simply.
I crossed my arms over my chest and eyed him with a raised brow. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to have a garden because you like tomatoes.”
He nodded and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yep.”
“And what do I get out of this deal?”
“I guess you can have some, too, if you want.”
“Oh, okay,” I said with an amused snort. “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”
The day was quiet for a Saturday, especially one this beautiful. The sun was warm, and the birds were singing joyously from the trees surrounding our houses. Spring was quickly approaching, and we were the only people outside in our part of the community. So, when the sound of an enormous vehicle rumbled down Daffodil Lane, shattering the peace and silence, Noah and I both jumped with a start.
“Oh, that’s my dad,” he mumbled, sounding less than enthusiastic.
It was odd to me that, from the beginning, the kid had mentioned that he had a father on a couple of occasions, but not once had I seen him. Why had months passed of me living in this town before I finally witnessed any evidence of a father?
“You should go inside,” Noah said hurriedly, like he was on the verge of panicking.
“Why?” I peered down the road, eager to catch a glimpse of this guy who never seemed to check on his family.
“Because …” His breath escalated, and his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Because my dad doesn’t like me talking to people he doesn’t know, so … go … please.”
I knew desperation when I heard it, and I listened out of respect for Noah. But I didn’t like the small, frightened tone of his voice, and it was for that reason that I stayed directly on the other side of my front door, watching through the flimsy curtain as the silver pickup truck came into view and parked sloppily outside of Ray and Noah’s house with its front tire up on the bricks surrounding her small front yard.
I didn’t like that truck almost as much as Noah’s panicked voice.
It was big with tinted windows and a bumping sound system that rattled the few dishes I kept in the kitchen cabinets. It reminded me of the types of cars guys at The Pit would drive—the ones with money anyway. Guys who needed to overcompensate for the things they lacked. Cash. Street cred. A big, noteworthy dick.
I was intrigued now, wondering what this guy looked like. I mean, who was Noah’s father anyway? Why had I heard nothing about him in nearly three months? Why hadn’t I ever seen him or this truck before in all this time? A barrage of questions was pelted at me all at once as I watched, peeking through the window and waiting to catch a glimpse of this elusive dude with the obnoxious truck.
But he never got out, never showed his face. Instead, he bellowed from beneath the cover of his shitty music for Noah to “get in this goddamn truck right now,” and Noah did as he had been told, hanging his head as he climbed in.
And you know what?
I liked that least of all.
***
“Hey, Patrick,” I said, walking into McKenna’s that following Monday, not surprised to see him hanging around.
Officer Kinney’s wife, Kinsey, worked the counter at the deli. So, naturally, the guy spent a good deal of his time busting her chops while she worked.
He offered a friendly smile at my greeting. “Hey, Soldier. How’s it goin’？”
“All right. Can’t complain.” I stopped to lean against the counter beside him. “Actually, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“You know a lot about the people around here, right?”
He puckered his lips with contemplation before saying, “Sure, I’d say so. Why do you ask?”
“So, what do you know about Ray’s boyfriend?”
Patrick wrinkled his brow as he turned to Kinsey, waiting behind the counter for me to give her my order.
“Does Ray have a boyfriend?” he asked her, and she shrugged and replied, “No, I don’t think so.”
Well, that’s an interesting turn of events.
“Okay,” I hummed and tapped my fingers against the glass case housing the deli meats and prepared salads. “What about Noah’s dad then? What do you know about him?”
“Well, I know he has one … obviously,” Patrick replied, still deep in thought. “We don’t see him often around here though. As far as I know, he’s never lived with Ray. Honestly, I’m not sure they’ve ever been together—or at least not in the time she’s lived here.”