I take her to the next town and park on the side of the street. Her longing gaze out the window makes me wonder if she’s sobered up at all.
“What’s over here?”
“Come on,” I tell her, pulling her across the front bench and out my door.
I take her hand, wondering why it feels so familiar to hold it, also wondering if it’s okay to feel so normal holding it.
I stop in the crosswalk and place my hands on her shoulders, twisting her to the side. “This is where it happened.”
“Where what happened?” she questions.
“The incident that caused my life to fall apart—when a speeding car hit my parents.”
August pins her hands up by her heart. She didn’t say much in the hospital when I told her about my past, and I wondered what she thought, but the look in her eyes right now tells me she understands the pain I must have gone through.
“Sometimes, I come back here for a reality check to show myself how far I’ve come in life despite surviving the moment that changed my life forever,” I tell her. “It’s sobering.”
“I can’t walk into my bathroom with my eyes open,” she says. “Even in the dark, I see Keegan’s body still lying there.”
“I can imagine,” I tell her.
“I realized the whiskey allows me to think without focusing on what I saw.”
I retake her hand and lead her down another two blocks. “We were on our way to get ice cream on the day of the accident. I never got my ice cream. I never wanted ice cream again. Not until right now.” The thought of ice cream doesn’t cross my mind anymore, but if I’m asking August to break through the demons in her head, I can do the same.
“I love ice cream,” August tells me.
For the first time in twenty-five years, I open this door and walk inside the small shop. The memory of white tiles and black squares within each title made me think they decorated the floor to look like ice cream sprinkles. The minty green tables that used to make me believe the shop’s unique flavor was mint-chocolate chip are still here, and the scent of vanilla and chocolate was how I thought life would smell if I lived inside of the Candy Land game. The simple thoughts of a child. “What’s your favorite flavor, August?” I ask. “Mint chocolate chip,” she says without thinking. Of course, it is.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Mine too.” I order two cups of mint-chocolate-chip, then keep my eyes set on August’s profile, watching her eyes light up as the young girl, dressed in a pink polo shirt and white paints with a matching white apron, scoops the ice cream.
“I’m sorry I was late tonight,” she says, reaching for a couple of spoons.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her.
“I didn’t deserve for you to be waiting for me.”
“I think I would have waited there all night for you,” I tell her, being honest.
After the girl places our cups of ice cream and a few napkins on the counter, I pull out some cash and pay for the ice cream. We take a seat at one of the little tables in the corner near the window, and some old-fashioned country love song grows in volume from the speakers above us.
August is dainty about how she takes a small spoonful but still manages to leave remnants of ice cream on her lips. Part of me wonders if she’s doing that on purpose.
I lean over and clean it away with the tip of my thumb. The look within her baby-blue eyes softens, and our gazes lock. I should give her space to heal, but I can’t stop myself from falling for her. I shouldn’t crowd her life with mine when she’s dealing with so much. I know all this, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Is that me being selfish?
“I don’t want to go back to my apartment,” she tells me. “I’m tired of going into my bathroom blind.”
I’m not sure what she wants me to say. “When is your lease up?”
“Two months from now—I was going to switch the lease over to just my name, but I don’t know if I’d have to renew for another year if I do that.”
“I’m not sure how that all works, darlin’.”
“There’s a lot of whiskey in my apartment. It’s been like having a roommate. When I look at the bottles, it makes me think someone else brought them inside. It makes me think I’m not alone, but I am, and it makes me want to cry. When I drink the whiskey, there are no more tears.”
“It’s not whiskey that’s going to fix you, August.”
“I don’t know what’s going to help anymore. I didn’t even love Keegan like that. I don’t understand why my heart hurts so much.”
“Even if you weren’t in love with him, that doesn’t mean that after spending all those years with him, you didn’t love him at all. There’s a hole left where he was.”
“I just can’t stand being alone, I guess.”
“I understand that,” I tell her. Boy, oh boy, do I understand.
We finish our ice creams and stand to throw our paper goods away. August is out the glass door first, glancing up and down the street. “Chance?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“Mind if I sleep on your couch tonight?”
Her question shocks the hell out of me, but I’d never tell her no. “Of course you can.”
“Thanks,” she says.
I take her back to my house, wishing I had cleaned up a bit more beforehand, but I certainly didn’t see the night going like this.
“Here we are,” I tell her as I open the front door.
“Your house is charming,” she says. “I love it.” Charming is an excellent way to say it’s old and needs a million renovations.
She walks through the kitchen, covered in yellowed linoleum, and heads right through the dining room, past the table that has remained vacant of any guests in God knows how long.
When she locates the living room, she takes a seat on my worn gray couch, kicks her flat shoes to the ground, and pulls her feet beneath her bottom. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“You know what, let me go put some fresh sheets on my bed for you, and you can have my bed for the night. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, I’m not putting you out like that. I appreciate you letting me stay as it is.”
“I insist,” I tell her.
She smiles, a look of wonder and surprise passes through her eyes. “Honestly, I didn’t know gentleman still existed.”
“We’re a rare breed, I guess,” I chuckle.
“You are.”
I tend to the sheets, fixing up my room for her, so she’s comfortable, but when I come back out into the living room, she’s curled into a ball, asleep.
I sigh, feeling sorry for this beautiful, innocent woman standing in front of me. I lift her into my arms and carry her into the bedroom, settling her down under the sheets.
I’d do about anything to hold her all night. I wouldn’t let go.
“Chance?” she whispers.
“I thought you were asleep?” I respond in the same calm tone.
“Will you stay with me?” I know she isn’t asking for more. I know what she’s feeling. I’ve felt it many times before—the need for a hug, the need for someone to hold my hand.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” It’s been hours since her last drink.
“I’m sober, Chance. I just don’t want to be alone.”
She said what I wanted to hear. “All right,” I tell her.
I grab a pair of shorts and a clean tee, change in the bathroom, brush my teeth, and head back to my bed, debating if I’m doing the right thing. August rolls over to face me. I pause in the doorway before making the final decision to climb in with her. “Please,” she says again.
I crawl into my bed, keeping space between us, and fold my hands beneath the back of my head. August scoots over to wrap her arm around my chest, places her head down on top of my heart.
I’m pretty sure I won’t move an inch tonight.
Morning comes quicker than I’d like, and it wasn’t until a half-hour ago that August rolled off my chest. She’s still asleep, and I hav
e the urge to make her breakfast because I’ve never had the opportunity to make a woman breakfast in bed before. Of course, I have no food in the house, and cooking would require me to find a recipe.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying my best not to make the bed shift. I find a piece of paper out in the kitchen and scribble down a brief note, telling her I’ve gone to pick up breakfast and to make herself comfortable.
I live just down the street from Walden’s bakery, so I’m sure I’ll be able to find something there.
While gently closing my front door, I hear, “Yoo-hoo! Chance Miller, good morning to you.”
Didi is sitting on her front porch in a nightgown, sipping on a cup of tea. “Morning, Didi,” I reply with a quick wave.
“You aren’t going to come over and say hi?”
“I’m in a bit of a rush right now. Can I catch up with you later?”
“Golly, it sounds like you have someone camping out in your house. I saw you bring home a friend last night. Who’s the lucky girl?”
This conversation is the most forward Didi has been in a while. The tone in her voice is a little concerning, but it could just all be in my head.
“Yeah, just a friend needing a place to crash,” I tell her.
“I see,” she says, wrapping her bleached hair behind her ear.
“I’ll catch you later,” I tell her, heading off in the opposite direction.
I’m halfway to the bakery when I begin to wonder if Didi would be bold enough to go knocking on my door, knowing I’m not home but with a girl inside. She’s never done anything like that before, but she seemed off when I left.
When I reach the bakery, I find a small line pouring out the front door. It’s early Saturday morning, so I’m not surprised. I pull my phone from my back pocket to kill time when I see a missed call and a message on my phone, and I’m not sure when it came in.
I hold the phone up to my ear and listen to the message:
* * *
Hello, Mr. Miller. I’m Joyce Falcon, calling from Life Gift Foster Foundation in Austin. We have found a potential match for your application and would like to make an appointment to meet with you as soon as possible. Department of Children Services brought over a nine-year-old boy on Wednesday afternoon. We are about to transfer him to a foster care unit, but there’s no availability in the immediate area for a child his age. Again, please let us know right away if this opportunity interests you. Thank you, Mr. Miller.
* * *
I can’t—I can’t believe I just got that call. I hold the phone to my chest, not realizing the line to the bakery has moved on around me.
I step out of line to call the number back. I don’t want to make foundation wait. This opportunity is what I’ve been waiting for—it’s been years.
The number redials, and I wait for this woman to answer. I feel like the clouds are opening above me when the phone connects after one ring.
“This is Joyce Falcon. How can I help you?” she answers.
“Ms. Falcon, yes, this is Chance Miller. I’m returning your call about the little boy you have in your care.”
“Oh, yes, hi, Mr. Miller. Thank you so much for returning my call. Are you free at some point today to come down to our office and fill out some paperwork? We can fill you in on the details then.”
“Yes, ma’am. What time should I be there?”
“How does 1:00 sound?”
“I will be there.”
“We are at 1204 Walker Street, Suite 3.”
“Thank you so much for your call, Ms. Falcon.”
I fall against the brick wall outside of the Walden’s. It’s finally my turn to give someone a chance in life—like the one my parents gave me.
People are staring at me as they pass by in the line, and I wish I could scream my news out to everyone. They’d all think I was crazy, but this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
With a deep breath and a cool breeze to bring me back to reality, I step behind that last person in line, wondering how August will react to this news.
That is if August is still at my house, and Didi hasn’t intruded.
Chapter Twenty-Six
August
Naturally, I might be concerned about waking up in a man’s bed alone, but I remember the latter part of last night very clearly. The last thing I wanted was to be alone in my apartment. The reminders of Keegan lingering in every corner are destroying me, bit by bit. Even with Keegan’s boxes gone, I still feel his presence everywhere.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Chance to sleep next to me. It might have been too forward, asking a man to comfort me because I didn’t want to be alone, but he seemed more than willing, and he understood what I needed. He’s respectful, and I don’t sense any ulterior motives on his part.
I stretch my arms to the side, relishing the high-thread-count of Chance’s sheets. His comforter is soft, worn, and smells like soap and fabric softener.
“Chance?” I call out, wondering where he went. Maybe he decided to take the couch halfway through the night. I could understand.
Although, the silence makes me wonder if he’s even home still. I sit up a bit, pulling the sheets up to my neck, and glance around the room. A small white note on the nightstand beside me grabs my attention. I hope it’s for me and not something I shouldn’t be reading.
I pinch it between my fingers and flip it open.
Chance went to get us breakfast.
I feel undeserving of the attention and kindness he’s giving me. I haven’t done a thing for him, and I’m starting to feel like a charity case. I hope that’s not how Chance is looking at me.
I’m not sure when he left, but it’s only a few minutes after waking up that I hear his voice outside on the front porch.
I glance out the window behind the bed, carefully peering through the blinds so he won’t see me. A woman next door is in a dress far too tight to be wearing on a Saturday morning. She’s reading a magazine on her front porch, talking to Chance.
Is she his neighbor? Good God. Her legs must be as long as my body and her breasts—there is no possible way those are real. I wouldn’t be surprised if her perfect blonde hair is a wig too. She’s like a real-life Barbie doll.
Chance looks uncomfortable on his front step, answering whatever questions she’s tossing at him. He scratches the back of his neck and squints up at the sun.
I hop out of bed and make my way to the front door, stepping outside. “You got us breakfast?” I ask him.
He appears relieved to be interrupted, but maybe I shouldn’t have assumed that’s what he wanted. I guess something inside of me told me to break up the interaction.
It’s unexpected when Chance loops his arm around my back, tugging me into his side. “I sure did.”
The look on Barbie’s face is priceless. Maybe they’re just friends. She could be married or in a relationship for all I know. I’m just assuming the worst.
“You’re sweet,” I tell him.
“I’ll catch ya later, Didi. Have a nice weekend,” Chance tells her.
If looks could kill, I think I’ll go with my gut on this one. When we close ourselves back inside, Chance covers his hand over his face. “Sorry about that,” he says. He doesn’t owe me an apology, though. We aren’t together. We haven’t committed ourselves to one another in any way, and I invited myself back to his place last night, which could be considered far more promiscuous than Barbie—Didi.
“Without sounding arrogant, she’s been seemingly after me since she moved in next door a few years ago. Not my type, though. I’ve been polite, but sometimes she can be a bit of a pain.”
I guess my gut was right. However, I don’t know a ton of men that wouldn’t refer to a Barbie look-a-like as their type.
“Ah, well, life is better off not being dull, right?” It’s the best line I can come up with on the spot.
“I suppose that may be true in some circumstances. Didi brings me baked goods once a week, so there’s that.” Food
is always the way to a man’s heart.
“Well, at least you won’t go hungry.” I’m making this awkward.
“So, ah, sorry I took so long. Have you been awake for a while?” Chance places down two coffees and a brown bag down on his old-worn kitchen table.
“Nope, just a bit. You didn’t have to rush out and get us breakfast, though,” I tell him. I’d say I’m not high maintenance, but he might think otherwise after the last couple of weeks.
“I would have been back sooner, but I got a call that threw me a bit off track.” Chance takes a seat at his table and pulls out the other chair, pats it for me to sit down.
My curious thoughts are louder than the crinkling of the paper bag as he retrieves what’s inside. “I hope everything is okay,” I tell him.
He lays down a few napkins and arranges an assortment of pastries. “I didn’t know what you like—other than dry, dark hamburgers, of course.”
“You don’t eat those for breakfast too?” I question with a smile.
“No, ma’am. That’s a dinner special only.”
“What’s your favorite?” I ask him, figuring at least one of the pastries is his preferred choice.
“The blueberry scone is my favorite, so I got two in case you have the same favorite.” The small smile on his face is cute and lovable.
“I would love the chocolate chip croissant,” I tell him.
We divvy up the food, and he hands me a coffee. “I got it black, but I have cream and sugar.”
“Black is good,” I tell him.
“Seriously?” Chance questions.
“Yeah, I’m weird.”
“I’d say impressive, but we’ll go with weird,” he agrees.
We eat in silence for a moment, and I take in his kitchen’s surroundings, lacking modern flair. Maybe decorating isn’t his thing. I can understand someone not wanting to waste time on something like that if they spend more time at work than at home.
“So, you didn’t answer me. Is everything okay—regarding the call you got?”
Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 17