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chapter one
colton
I stare at the drain in my kitchen sink as it drips, drips, drips. The sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the house hits the off beat. Drip, tick, drip, tock, drip, tick, drip, tock.
That’s all I can hear.
I know there’s murmuring going on around me. I know people are moving around my home, talking in quiet voices. I know my father is somewhere nearby taking care of my son and my mother is probably sitting on my back patio trying to hide the fact that she’s been drinking since before is considered appropriate.
But even though I can logically accept that my house is filled with a low hum of noise, the only thing I can hear is the steady rhythm of the dripping sink and the ticking clock. The consistency of it is almost hypnotic, and I try to keep my mind focused on just these two steady noises as I remain hunched over, my hands desperately clasping the shabby countertop as if I’ll collapse if I let go.
To be honest, I just might.
My head rises slowly and I allow myself the briefest moment to stare out the window into the back yard. But I instantly regret it when my eyes catch on the tire swing I just strapped onto the old southern magnolia tree last week.
That tree is the reason I bought this house, the scent of the citrusy flowers a reminder of the hometown we left behind to move here to Sandalwood. Magnolias were Melody’s favorite flower, and I thought…
Well, I don’t know what I thought. But the fact that we lowered her into the ground today definitely wasn’t something I could have predicted.
Now, seeing that tree in the back standing so sure and proud, so tall and grand when everything around me feels like it is falling to pieces…it makes me wish I had a chainsaw to chop it down. Maybe that would ease some of this pain that feels like it compounds with every breath I take.
Taking my eyes off the tree in the yard and no longer focusing on the sound of the drip or the clock allows the background hum to begin creeping in, like someone is slowly turning up the volume on life, and I start to notice the swirl of movement around me.
When I turn my back to the sink and the window, nearly every eye in sight glances my way, facial expressions pinch in concern, conversations cut off abruptly and continue again in hushed tones.
It makes me want to crawl into the hole where we buried Melody, waste away next to her cold body, hidden from the curious eyes and uncomfortable stares. If things were even slightly different, that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d rest next to her and simply…stop existing, if it weren’t for…
“Daddy?”
My eyes drop down to the tiny guy who barely comes up to my knee, my true reason for existing.
“I’m tired.”
I blink a few times, the zombie mindset I’ve allowed myself to slip into beginning to fade, my senses sharpening and my awareness returning.
Crouching down in front of my three-year-old, I give him a soft smile. Teddy doesn’t fully understand what’s been going on for the past few days. I’ve tried explaining to him that his mom has gone away, but it’s his first experience with death and he keeps asking when she’ll be back, as if she’s just gone out to the store or to work. When I try to explain to him that she won’t be coming back, he just tilts his head, giving me a look I don’t fully understand.
There haven’t been any tears on his end, thankfully, though I’m sure at some point they will come. He doesn’t seem to have any questions about it now, which makes this whole situation feel just slightly easier to manage.
Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s definitely time to get him settled for a nap.
“Yeah, bud. I’m tired, too. Why don’t we go upstairs and take a nap together?”
His tired eyes brighten just slightly, and he reaches out and wraps his arms around my shoulders.
I get it. I wish I could be carried right now, too.
Just as he settles in on my hip, his head resting on my chest and his muscles relaxing in my arms, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder.
When I turn, I realize the person who has pressed his palm against me is someone I don’t know, so I take a step back, trying to shrug off his grasp without being rude.
“Hey there, Colt,” he says, his words coming out with a small slur, the scent of the whiskey we have available for guests hitting me solidly in the face.
I don’t think I know who this guy is, but hell, after the craziness of this week, anything is possible.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” I ask, scanning his face, trying to sort through any memory I might have of him in my life or Melody’s.
“We haven’t met.” He sticks his hand out. “Sean Winston. I worked with Melody at the hospital.”
