Lexi’s groan drowns out my rooster crow, and we both turn in her direction. “Seriously, have you no shame? And that goes for the both of you, since I have no doubt she’ll be handing over her number shortly. It’s hard to watch sometimes.”
After taking her order and getting her to sign her receipt, which she wrote both her signature and phone number on, I might add, I narrow my eyes at my insolent employee.
“Cock-block much?”
“Cock-a-doodle-doooo,” she sings, and then bursts out laughing.
I open my mouth to ban her from speaking for the rest of the morning when the ringing phone interrupts me. I grab the portable off the back counter and check the caller ID. If the 318 area code doesn’t grab my attention at first, the Prosper, LA across the screen punches me square in the gut. No name, just Prosper, LA.
I don’t give a fuck who it is—there’s no one in Prosper who’s got anything good to say to me. And there’s nothing I can do or say to change that.
“Telemarketer. Let it ring,” I say in a clipped tone as I toss the stick of dynamite on the counter and stalk to the back.
I pace the storage room as the incessant ringing rattles my brain. I clench my eyes shut and push out every thought of that godforsaken town. Over the last few years, I’ve become adept at locking those memories away in the deepest part of my heart, never letting them see the light of day. It’s funny how a two-inch-by-four-inch illuminated screen can dismantle five years’ worth of work … suppression … denial … whatever.
When the ringing finally stops, I fold in half, hands gripping my neck and head hanging between my knees.
If I could just breathe.
The answering machine flips on, and my recorded voice ricochets off the walls, punctuated at the end with an ear-piercing beep. My lungs seize in my chest as a voice I’d know from anywhere fills the room, deliberate and somber.
“Seb? It’s Lance … your brother.” He sighs into the phone, sounding like a harsh, piercing whistle. “I’m here … in Prosper. Look man, you’re gonna need to come home.”
Home. Home. Home.
The unrelenting guilt I battle every time I think of Prosper rushes over me. There’s a reason I’ve shoved those memories to the furthermost corner of my mind. Tentacles of regret pull me under like a thousand-pound cinder block at the bottom of the Black Sea. Memories, emotions, and sorrow for the mistakes I’ve made barrel through me. Brady … my parents … Autumn … my Autumn.
One phone call unravels me as I’m pummeled with the only truth I know with any amount of certainty.
I lost my home on a summer day five years ago, and I’ll never get it back.
Chapter 2
Sebastian
The Past
Prosper, LA
I shut the front door and slam my fist into the wood, feeling every frustration and fear barreling through me without mercy or filter. The images of Brady’s crumpled body, Autumn’s bloodcurdling screams, and that fucking music blaring while my world fell apart assault me in graphic detail.
What I wouldn’t give to be winning the race? Then my bike would have hit the stray scrap of log on the other side of the hill. I would have gone airborne, only to be thrown to the ground, my bike following with a sickening thud. Then I would have laid there, contorted and broken. Me, instead of Brady.
Images flash through my mind like a macabre picture show, a constant loop of gruesome regret, never giving me a moment’s peace. Peace is the last thing I deserve, anyway.
Bloodied knuckles and exhaustion slow me down, and I slide to the floor, head in hands and heart utterly crushed. The foyer is filled with nothing but my labored breaths.
It’s been a week since the accident. Seven days since my stupid idea left my best friend mangled and bleeding. Seven days since I’ve seen Autumn or Brady.
Seven days … more like an eternity.
Brady was airlifted to Shreveport after the local hospital assessed his injuries. His father, stone-faced and haggard, made an appearance in the crowded waiting room, bursting at the seams with the entirety of Prosper High’s student population. He let us know Brady was being transferred to a higher-level facility, our prayers were appreciated, but we all needed to go on home. Every day since then, I’ve driven the two hours to Shreveport and camped out in the hospital waiting room, asked for updates at the nurses’ station, called Autumn’s phone—and nothing. I’ve tried everything I can think of and get nothing but silence in return.
Until today, that is, when I was escorted out by hospital security and told to leave and not come back.
How did things spiral so out of control? Brady and I had raced hundreds of times—on foot, bicycle, skateboard, four-wheeler. You name it, and we’ve turned it into a competition. The worst thing that had ever happened was a scraped knee or a bruised ego.
Until last week. God, what I wouldn’t give to hit rewind and make a different choice. Say something other than the all-too-familiar challenge between best friends.
Race you for it.
I clench my eyes shut and dig my fists into my sockets, either trying to hold the flaying pieces of myself together or push the racing thoughts away. I’m not sure which, but it doesn’t work on either count.
Too focused inward on my hurricane of thoughts, I don’t notice my dad’s approach until he’s right in front of me, clearing his throat.
“Son, we need to talk.”
* * *
“I-I-I don’t understand,” I stammer, holding back the burgeoning tears as my father sits across from me with powerless eyes and a ticking jaw. “Am I being arrested? I-I-I know I shouldn’t have taken that beer from the house, but—”
“It’s not that kind of lawsuit, Sebastian,” he interrupts, letting out a frustrated sigh and shaking his head. “They aren’t threatening criminal charges. They’re talking about a civil lawsuit. The punishment wouldn’t be jail time. If you’re found guilty, the punishment would be restitution to the family. Money.” He leans forward, elbows to his knees, his expression more somber than I’ve ever seen. “A lot of money. More money than I’ve seen in my life, if I had to guess.”
“What are you saying? Dad, I don’t have any money. Other than a hundred bucks of Christmas money and my savings bonds you’ve got in the safe, I-I’m broke.”
God knows, if I had any money … if it would fix the hurt I’ve caused Brady and his family, I’d gladly hand over every last cent.
“But we do.” My dad narrows his eyes and waits for his words to sink in. “Yeah, Seb, they’ll take it all. The house, the little savings we have, the business … I’ve already lost five long-standing clients because of this. They said they couldn’t do business with ‘people like us.’”
A single tear, hot and shameful, escapes and tracks down my cheek as I look away. Disgrace washes over me as I think of all the years my dad has spent building his lawn services company. For my entire life, he’s been up before dawn, chasing sunlight as he sweats and slaves to keep his family afloat. And I’ve unraveled all those years in one afternoon.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Tell me what I can do to make it right. I’ll talk to Brady’s parents. Apologize,” I plead, already knowing an apology is as useful as placing a Band-Aid on a bullet hole.
“Their son may never walk again.” He raises his hands in exasperation and glares. “Do you get that? Can you fathom how your little stunt caused something that has forever changed that boy? That family? You’re the last person they want to see right now.”
A stack of envelopes hits the coffee table with a stinging slap, and I look up in question.
“Death threats. Six in the last two days, not to mention the gashes in your mother’s car. It’s been keyed multiple times this week.” He shakes his head and sighs. “Son, you can’t destroy the golden boy, the football prodigy of Prosper, and come away unscathed. They want retribution. Revenge.”
My dam of control collapses, and the tears flow freely down my cheeks. Crushing sobs rack my body as my fin
gers twist and pull at my hair. I think of all the people I’ve hurt. Brady. His parents. My father. Autumn.
Autumn … she’ll never be able to look at me again without remembering what I’ve done.
My dad reaches over and grips my shoulder as my whole body quakes. “Son, I’m sorry, but I need you to understand the magnitude of this. As much as you want it to, this thing isn’t going away. What happened out in that field … it’s not going away.”
“What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” I chant softly to no one.
As if on cue, I hear the suitcases hit the floor beside me. My eyes travel up the trembling hands of my mother to see her tearstained face etched with exhaustion and despair.
“There’s only one way out of this, Sebastian, so I need you to listen to me carefully,” my dad says with steely resolve.
I listen with rapt attention as the cell door slides firmly shut on every hope I had for my future. I hear the sliding of steel and the clicking of the lock, loud and clear. No, I may not be going to prison, but my life will become a prison all the same.
Chapter 3
Sebastian
Present Day
Prosper, LA
I stand on the edge of the sidewalk, not daring to step a toe into my father’s yard, body poised to bolt at the slightest provocation. I stare at my charred childhood home with a mixture of sorrow and dread. I dreaded coming, never planned on showing my face in my so-called hometown ever again. But there are things to be done, papers to be signed, and a helluva lot more cleanup than I could leave to just my brother.
I look to the left. To the right. I wait for the angry mob to descend, telling my worthless ass to go back to where I ran off. The street remains silent, but memories, some cherished, others dreaded, race unfiltered through my thoughts.
Mr. Jansen’s yard, where I kissed Autumn for the first time.
Mr. Alfred’s greenhouse, our favorite hide-and-seek spot.
This exact spot, five years ago, where I drove off with nothing but a duffel bag and a beater car, never to return.
Until now.
Nausea stirs in my gut as Lance emerges from the nonexistent wall that used to be my parents’ bedroom, smudged with grime and soot.
Did they wake up right in the thick of it, unable to escape? I clench my eyes shut and suck in a sharp breath at the very thought.
Lance dusts his hands off on his jeans and makes his way toward me. Good thing, because my feet are still cemented to the spot. His tightly tucked-in shirt, buzzed hair, and stern eat-shit-and-die expression serve to remind me some things never change. The fight-or-flight response I feel being back in Prosper makes me think nothing ever changes. Time means nada, and sins are marked in tattoos, not chalk. At least that’s how it is in this unforgiving town.
Lance squeezes my shoulder, and the gesture releases a small bit of tension stretched tight throughout my body. It takes long seconds before I can tear my gaze away from the nightmare of soot and ash and meet his eyes. The pitiful expression he gives me says everything. I look lost and floundering through his eyes. Not surprising, since that’s exactly how I feel.
My emotions are a house of precariously teetering cards, threatening to topple under the pressure of being in Prosper after five long years, suddenly losing my parents, never mending our relationship while they were alive, and a hundred other emotions that refuse to stay bottled up where they belong.
“I know what you’re thinking, man, because I thought the same thing. They didn’t bu—” He chokes and presses his lips together to stave off the wave of emotion. He takes a sobering breath and continues. “They didn’t burn. It was smoke inhalation that got them. Old electrical wiring is what did it. He’d mentioned rewiring the house before but hadn’t gotten to it yet.”
I nod my head, unable to speak, grateful for the small bit of peace his words bring me. My parents are still gone, our relationship still left in unamendable shambles, but the thought of them burning rips at my insides. When all is said and done, setting aside my mistakes and their dismissal, I loved my parents, and I know they loved me the best they knew how. Yes, they sent me away with whatever quick money they could muster, and that will probably always sting. It’s taken a long time, more years than I care to admit, to swallow that bitter pill. I’m not sure I actually have.
We haven’t spoken since the day I left, and I’ll admit I’m partly responsible for that. I’ve always kept in touch with my brother, but he’s deployed most months of the year and lives in Texas when he’s not. That is the extent of my contact with my old life. My parents never looked for me, never sought me out after that day, and I staunchly refused to make the first move. What felt like pride and self-respect back then now holds the bitter taste of arrogance and stupidity. Death has an uncanny way of flushing out the bullshit and leaving you reeling.
“So what,” I choke out. “What are we—”
A crash from inside the house interrupts my stammering, and Isaac, Lance’s son and my nephew, peers his head out of the makeshift hole.
“My bad, sorry!” he calls out with a wave and disappears back into the blackened cave.
Lance brings his attention back to me and frowns. “It’s a total demo, Seb. We’re just looking through the rubble for mementos, things that we may want to keep that didn’t burn. Your room is probably in the best shape …”
I jerk back, shaking my head, and Lance grips my shoulder more tightly. “I don’t want anything out of there. Nothing.”
The last thing I need to do is sift through my old life, ruminating over all the things I’ve missed. That would serve no purpose other than rubbing salt in a reopened wound.
Lance shakes his head, jaw clenched, looking as stubborn, if not more so, than I do. “Not letting you do it anymore, man. They may have sent you away, but you’ve been running ever since. Enough.”
The petulant teenager who lives and breathes inside of me wants to say, “screw you,” and “you don’t know me,” but the half-evolved adult I’ve become knows that’s a lie. The facade and bravado I wear like a suit of armor melted away the second I hit the Prosper city limit sign. Part of me is still that kid, guilt-ridden and so fucking sorry. Sitting pretty in Haven, the ghosts of my past look much smaller, like I’m in an airline jet, watching ant people at thirty thousand feet. Here in Prosper, it’s me who’s the ant, and my demons are poised to stamp me out like the little pest I am.
“When you’re chased out of town, what choice do you have but to run? Don’t really see how that’s on me, brother.”
“I’m not talking about running from this town … running from these people. I’m talking about running from yourself,” he says, with a firm shove to my chest. “Pretending that shit from the past isn’t there while it slowly rots you from the inside out.”
I look to the setting sun and sniff, pushing down the emotions boiling over inside of me. Shove it down deep, just like every time before. That’s the only way I’ve made it through these past few years. Choke it down deep and move forward. Maybe there’s some truth to what Lance is saying. Maybe each step wouldn’t be so hard if I let go of some of the baggage weighing me down.
Maybe chucking old luggage out the window is much easier said than done. Maybe looking ahead instead of fixating on the rearview mirror is an impossibility.
Fuck, I need to get out of this town.
As if reading my mind, Lance starts back toward the rubble, knowing I’ll follow. “Let’s put the demons to rest. Throw out that old shit that doesn’t serve you anymore. You never know, man, you may just find some things worth coming back for.”
And maybe that’s what I’m most afraid of …
* * *
My navy-blue plaid comforter still lays neatly on top of my old bed, beaded up and faded, but soft and comfortable as ever. I run a hand over it and smile, trying to remember when this used to be home, and push back the overpowering smell of soot and smoke burning my nostrils.
I lean down and grab the yearboo
k off my bookshelf, open it to a random page, and chuckle. Me, armed with a paintball gun, and Brady, running for his life, while he looks back at me with a shit-eating grin.
Running. He was running. Damn …
Emotion burns the back of my nose, and for once, I don’t swallow it down. Moisture builds behind my eyes as the familiar feeling of regret takes over. I know he never wanted to hear from me, that was made crystal clear back then, but I’ve looked him up a few times over the years. Sometimes, when I felt especially self-deprecating, I’d venture onto Brady’s social media accounts. Even though they were set to private, a few profile pics were available for public viewing. In the photos, he always had that same steady grin, ready to take on the world, except now he was doing it with the aid of a wheelchair. Part of me felt triumphant for him, watching my best friend soar despite the hurdles placed before him. But the part of me that lived in the real world knew these pictures only showed half the story—the pretty part. If you pull back the perfectly painted curtain, I’m sure there are cries of frustration and grunts of despair … all created by yours truly.
And if that wasn’t enough to warn me away, then the sight of Autumn was the final nail in the coffin of my heart. The first photo I came across was of brother and sister on a basketball court, both sporting wheelchairs and expressions brimming with laughter. The basketball rested in Brady’s lap as he looked over his shoulder at his obviously gaining-on-him sister. Tendrils of Autumn’s hair had stuck to her neck, shiny and slick with sweat. Her full lips were curved up into the widest grin, one degree shy of busting out laughing. Flushed cheeks and mischief—that’s my girl. That was my girl, at least. Every single thing screams life went on without me, and I’m nothing but a terrible nightmare for both of them to overcome. From the looks of things, they’re both well on their way.
Waiting for Autumn Page 2