“Are you kidding me? How many doctors have you seen with a butt like that?”
“I don’t really keep track.”
“That’s a shame.” She was still busy watching the man walk down the hall.
“Alright, well, my shift ended ten minutes ago, so. . .” I swiped my ID card through the slot, watching the little green light blink.
“You at work tomorrow?” Meg asked.
“Yep. Three twelves this week.”
“See you tomorrow then.” She waved before grabbing a chart and disappearing into one of the rooms.
I stopped outside the doors to the waiting room, squirting hand sanitizer into my hand while the automatic doors slowly open. Mr. Brenner, my old high school teacher, waved from one of the plastic waiting room chairs. I waved back before I slipped outside into the muggy night air. Alabama heat has a habit of wrapping around you like a wool blanket. Uncomfortable and unbearably stuffy.
Very little had changed in that little town since I’d left two years ago. Unfortunately, it seemed the only thing that had changed was the reason I was home.
_
The light to the front porch was on when I pulled down the gravel drive and parked next to Daddy’s F-150. After I cut the engine, I sat in the dark with my heart hammering against my ribs.
All day, I had been with sick people. I watched three people die, but all that meant was that I was used to death—not immune to it. It’s hard to watch someone suffer, but watching your mother suffer…
You can’t avoid this, Hannah. Taking a breath, I pushed open the car door to the distinct hum of cicadas. Sampson, my brother’s hound dog, came bolting off the porch, his ears waving behind him like a tattered flag, barking.
“It’s just me, shhh!” I told him before he jumped up, placed his paws against my legs, and licked my hand. “Why are you outside, anyway?”
He followed me up the old wooden steps of the wrap around porch. I swatted the moths away from the porch light before I opened the screen door. Momma always hated when those things flew inside. The door was barely opened before Sampson wriggled between my legs and the doorjamb and scurried inside.
It was past midnight, so I tried to be quiet as I tiptoed up the stairs, but that farmhouse was built in the 1800s and half of the steps creaked and groaned under my weight. The door to my parents’ bedroom was still cracked. Out of habit, I glanced in on my way down the hall. Daddy had Momma’s old, wooden rocker pulled up beside the bed. One of his weathered hands clasped Momma’s hand while the other swiped away his tears. His head was bowed, and I was certain he was praying for a miracle, but I unfortunately knew what the results of the tests she’d had the week before meant. And it was not good. After I passed my brother’s door, I slipped into mine.
When I flipped the light on, the bright pink walls nearly blinded me. I thought this was the most awesome color when I was fifteen, not so much at the age of twenty. Daddy offered to redo my room when I moved back to help out, but I didn’t see the point. He had better things to do than tone down this abysmal color.
I dropped my purse to the floor and flopped down on the bed, still in my scrubs as I stared up at the tiny glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling.
Mother was only fifty-one. Bo was only sixteen. I choked on a sob before I gave into it all and let go.
I didn’t know how to lose her.
4
Noah
The paint on the cinder block wall behind the counter was peeling. You’d think Rockford’s finest would have taken a little more pride in their jail.
Buzz. I glanced over my shoulder at the automatic doors sliding open. An officer escorted a woman in nothing but a thin, white t-shirt inside the jail. No bra. Possibly no underwear... Jesus, I’m ready to get the hell out of here.
The scrawny policeman behind the counter snatched a piece of paper from the printer. “Court date’s set for August ninth,” he said, jotting something on the bottom of the page before sliding it across the counter. “This says you’ve been charged with domestic violence, class one.” He tapped the pen over a line. “Sign here.”
I took the pen and scrawled my name. He tore off the top sheet and handed the yellow copy to me. “Go on now,” he said.
Another buzzer sounded and the metal door beside his desk slid open with a loud click. Exactly what I needed, a domestic violence charge. That charge was a load of shit. Max Summers deserved every bruise, every broken rib I gave him. There was no respect for vigilante justice these days.
The second I stepped into the lobby of the station, someone clapped. I glanced around, and my dumbass friend, Trevor, was leaning against the far wall by a vending machine, grinning like an idiot and still clapping. His blonde hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days, and from the state of the circles under his eyes, I assumed he’d stayed out drinking after I’d gotten arrested. The few clerks in the room stared at him. I just shook my head, punching him on the shoulder when I passed by. “Come on,” I said, walking toward the exit.
“You’re welcome, asswipe,” he said as we stepped outside.
“Thanks.”
The thick summer heat clung to my skin like cellophane, and I squinted against the early morning sun.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “I’ve never actually been booked. You’re legit as it gets now, all you need is a shitty prison tattoo.”
The alarm to his BMW chirped, the taillights blinked, and the locks clicked. I wish I could say he wasn’t serious, but he was. “You should have been in jail at least four times by now,” I reminded him.
Trevor is what most people would call a shithead, and I guess that was why I was friends with him. His dad was the DA of Montgomery County, hence why he’d never actually gone to jail. He still lived with his parents. He had no aim in life—not that I did, but I came from a less than desirable background. No one expected me to do anything worthwhile with my life. Trevor was actually smart, had a scholarship to some school in Tennessee, but he just basically pissed his talent away. Said he couldn’t be “fucked” with college.
“Nah, now I can just say my friend’s an ex-con.” He grinned. “Gives me all the street cred I need.”
“Yes, because you need as much street cred as you can get in Sylacauga?” I climbed into his car and dragged my hand down my face. I was tired, hungover, and my jaw still swollen from where Max had gotten a few good shots in on me.
Trevor opened his console, grabbed my phone and truck keys, and tossed them to me. “Oh, they impounded your truck.”
“Aw, that’s bullshit!” I glanced at my watch. It’s already eight-thirty. God, Grandma’s going to beat me if I make her late to church. “Can I borrow your truck?” I asked, switching my phone on.
“Sure.” The deep rumble of the suped-up engine vibrated through the seat when Trevor cranked the engine.
We pulled out of the parking lot while my phone loaded. The distinct ping, ping, ping of texts fired off back to back. I clicked on the string of messages from my boss:
Where are you?
Late again?
Call me. Now!
Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. You’re fired.
I’ll admit, I may have been late a time or two to a paint job, but I always did a good job and finished it at least half a day earlier than quoted, so I felt like that was bullshit. Dickey had been looking for a reason to cut me loose for months because his ex-girlfriend had a thing for me. She told me they’d broken up; she was five-ten and blonde. Fake tits. The whole lot. A guy doesn’t pass that up, especially not after half a case of beer. “Great,” I mumbled, tossing my head against the headrest.
“What?”
“Dickey fired me.”
“Of course he did. Dickey’s a dick.” Trevor chuckled, but I couldn’t seem to find the humor in it. Not that morning.
_
Blue skies. Bright sun. It may only be nine in the morning, but the heat was already radiating up from the asphalt. I cranked the AC to full blast when I turned beside the mailbox with the wooden cross nailed to the post. Halfway up the drive Grandma’s prized chickens stood pecking at the gravel. I blew the horn, and they ran off into the yard with their wings flapping, feathers going everywhere. I hated those damn chickens.
When I pulled in front of the house, Grandma was waiting on the porch with a fan and her Bible, scowling at me. Yep, she’s going to kill me. I put the truck in park and left the engine running while I hopped out.
“You’re late,” she said, eyeing me as she shoved her fan into her purse. I knew she saw the bruises on my face.
“I know, I know.” I stepped onto the porch and held her elbow to help her down.
Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Where’s your truck?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Mmhmm. I don’t like to be late to church, Noah. I raised you better than that.”
She raised me better than that and better than spending a night in the county jail…
“I had to borrow Trevor’s truck.” I was sure as shit not telling her the real reason I was late. She may have been old and frail looking, but she was mean when she wanted to be. The one thing I didn’t want to do was let her down.