“So, what you been up to?” I ask, needing to take my mind off of this town.
He shrugs. “Nothing much. The garage has been keeping me busy.”
Colton got tired of this small town and the way everyone in it looked at us like we were diseased, so after he married, they moved to a neighboring town and settled down. He opened his own garage with a sliver of his cut from our substantial family fortune and has been living there ever since. I don’t blame him for needing to distance himself from this town. I should’ve done the same thing, but I got stuck with the largest portion of the business when he ran off to get married instead of sticking around and helping Dad when he was needed. He was the eldest son who refused his destiny. I was the second-eldest who was more than happy to take what the oldest rejected.
“Have you talked to Wyatt lately?” Colton asks. Wyatt is our younger brother. He’s absolutely crazy—the wild child out of us boys. He’s the type who will take any dare—no matter how stupid or dangerous—just to make everyone laugh.
I shake my head as I lift my beer and take a sip. “No, why?”
He laughs. “He called me last night. Guess where he was?”
“Fuck if I know,” I laugh out.
He chuckles. “His ass was sitting in a Florida jail.”
I shake my head and rub my eyebrows with one hand. “What? How?”
“Party boy decided to get drunk and take a page from that movie Coyote Ugly. He got up on the bar and started singing and dancing. When the bouncers tried to get him down, he refused and started a fight that destroyed the whole damn club. A riot started, and the police broke out the police vans, all of it.”
I laugh long and hard. “Oh, shit. What’s his bail set at?” God knows we have the money to cover it, but I can’t resist the opportunity to tease him relentlessly.
“He’s waiting for the judge to decide. He’ll be there until Monday at least.”
“I tell ya what . . . that kid has lived his life way better than either of us.” I point at him as I toss my empty can into the trash and grab two more from the cooler.
He joins in on my laugher. “I’m tellin’ ya. Makes me wish I would’ve done some things in my life differently.” A sadness settles over his face.
“Yeah, but if you had, you never would’ve met and married Haven. And you wouldn’t have had Milly either.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods his head as he stands, lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, I’m going to get out of here. I just wanted to stop by and fill you in on Wyatt. I’d better get back home.” He takes the beer I handed him and pops it open as he moves toward his truck.
“Careful driving home, man,” I shout to him.
He laughs. “Okay, Dad,” he teases.
I lean against the barn door and watch as he backs out of the driveway. When he’s down the road a ways, the silence of the night settles around me. I forget how quiet it is out here until I have company and they leave. The silence is almost haunting. Deafening. Coming from a large family with four brothers, silence is lonely.
I shake off the chills running up my neck and shut down the barn for the night. I head into the house, and it’s just as quiet as the barn was. My old hunting dog, Tatum, lifts his head off the floor when I walk in, but he’s old and lazy. He doesn’t move to welcome me.
“Hey, boy,” I say, bending down and patting his head as I pass. He lets out a small groan. “You hungry?” I ask, looking down at him like he might actually answer me. I pour a bit of kibble into his bowl and place it on the floor. His eyes follow me, but he still doesn’t move.
“Ugh, fine,” I grumble as I pick up the bowl and move it directly in front of his nose. He rolls from his side to his belly and begins to eat, lying down. I laugh as I stand up and grab the bottle of whiskey off the kitchen table. I twist the cap, take a swig, and set the bottle down with a deep breath. “Whoo, that’s some good stuff, Tatum.”
He looks up at me but doesn’t stop eating.
I decide I’d better find something for dinner. I haven’t had any food all day—only coffee with whiskey, then beer, and now, some more whiskey. I open the fridge and pull out a steak. I toss some salt and pepper on it and throw some butter in my old cast-iron skillet. I cut up some peppers and onions and toss them into the pan, then throw the slab of meat on top. I place the lid on the skillet and move toward the bedroom. Stripping out of my clothes and boots feels amazing. My back is sore and my feet are tired. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long year—er, I guess a long four years.
I sit on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but my plaid boxers and open the bedside table. Inside the top drawer, pushed to the very back, is a picture frame. I pull the frame out and turn it over. The picture inside takes my breath away and causes a sharp pain to radiate through my chest.
Casey Edison. The woman I wasn’t enough for. The woman who made me fall in love, only to rip out my heart and stomp on it when she left. In this picture, her long blonde curls are blowing in the breeze. Her plump red lips are turned up in a big smile. Her blue eyes are sparkling with the sun shining against them. Her white summer dress is being blown back by the spring breeze, showing me the perfect outline of her body: long legs, curvy hips, toned stomach, and perfectly round breasts. She’s standing out in the old garden—her garden. The one that’s now overgrown—a field of weeds since she hasn’t been here to take care of it. When she left, the world stopped for me. Nothing mattered. Nothing matters, because I wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for anybody. This is my life. I am and will always be bitter, cynical, alone.
Anger washes over me and I toss the picture back into the drawer. I slam it closed and push myself back up. That’s all I have to do: keep fucking going. As I walk into the kitchen, I grab the bottle of whiskey, drink away a little more of my bitterness, and take my place at the stove. One side of my steak is cooked perfectly, so I flip it over and replace the lid before leaning against the counter, staring off into space and wondering how the hell I ended up like this.
My eyes land on an old family photograph that’s hanging on the wall. It’s a picture of my mom, my dad, my brothers, and me. First, I look at my mother. She passed away from breast cancer when I was 15. She was a kind, patient, loving woman—the type of person every woman aspires to become. Then I look at my dad. Even in this picture, he looks aged, tired, and angry. Bitter. I guess I know where I get it. Then I look at myself. I’m only 10 or so in this picture. A boy. A boy who was always happy and smiling. Growing up, our family already had billions in the bank from the brewery and investments, but if you looked at how we lived, you never would’ve guessed it. We lived just like everyone else, and our home was an old two-story farmhouse. We had land, a barn, animals . . . everything you’d expect to see. While my dad was at the office, the boys were expected to take care of the animals and the land. I guess that’s how we became the hard workers we are now.
Now that Dad’s retired and the business falls mostly to me, we all get a cut of the profits. None of us needs to work, yet we all still do. Life’s too short to spend it being lazy. Hell, life’s too short to spend it being alone, but here I am.