Better (Stark Ink Book 2) (3 page)

“Be done in a few weeks, though,” Dalton told Jig. “Then there’ll be a few weeks off.”

They’d laid the foundation on that house in October, before the ground had frozen over. They wouldn’t start another until the spring thaw. After the holidays Dalton would take service calls, in the middle of the night most likely, for furnaces that had gone kaput, which was risky business in a South Dakota winter. In nicer neighborhoods, the Elaine and Lyle’s of Rapid City would give him cash tips for hauling his ass out of bed after Midnight. Every little bit helped.

Jig nodded. He worked in a warehouse out past the rail yard. He seemed to know enough about construction, though, to hold a conversation. Dalton didn’t ask, but he thought maybe Jig had gotten his electrician training in prison. You couldn’t bond a felon, though, and so Jig drove a front loader off-book instead. Dalton wasn’t a felon, he’d just gotten behind on his union dues. He was locked out for a year. Two paths, same destination, both fueled by ‘Sinful Spirits’. Dalton never asked Jig where that quote was from.

“Dog on the leash?” Jig asked.

“Yep,” Dalton replied as he took a sip of coffee. It’d go better with whiskey, but you couldn’t think like that these days.

Dalton had taken a while to get used to all this talk about how he
felt
about things, how things were
going.
Mom had cared, Pop had, too, in his own way. Adam checked up these days, though he had never done so in the years before Dalton had crashed and burned so spectacularly. Dalton was so unused to such personal conversation that he often forgot to return the favor, but he supposed Jig didn’t mind. It was Jig’s job to keep Dalton on the straight and narrow, not the other way around.

“How’s things?” Dalton asked anyway.

Jig smiled. “George is good.”

Dalton considered this. “Even in winter?”

“Well, he’s not blooming now, but his stem is still green.”

Dalton didn’t know enough about gardening to respond meaningfully. He’d nearly cut his thumb
off
but it was not now nor had it ever been green.

“You need a plant,” Jig said.

Dalton frowned. He didn’t want to get into that, either. “Maybe later,” he hedged.

“You need something to look forward to,” Jig countered.

Dalton didn’t know how to explain that right now he didn’t fucking care. So what if he was able to keep a plant alive for a whole year? What good would it do? Once the year was up, it wasn’t as though he gave a shit about dating again. He’d had a woman,
the
woman, and he’d fucking lost her. It didn’t matter that it was the right thing to do, the fact was, even though she was gone, even though he’d been the one to make her leave, he didn’t want anyone else.

“Maybe,” he told Jig lamely, because an argument wasn’t going to solve anything. Especially not here.

People around them started tossing their cups and choosing folding chairs lined up in crooked rows.

“Tonight’s the night,” Jig declared quietly.

Dalton frowned again.

“You gotta go somewhere to get somewhere.”

“Who said that?” Dalton asked.

“I did, back when I was going to be a rock star,” Jig said with a grin.

“ZZ Top?”

“Shit. ZZ Top stole their look from me, son. And if I could’ve handled my shit, it’d be me in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

Dalton found himself smiling along with Jig. You could say a lot about Jig, he decided, but one thing was for sure, he could keep the dog on a leash.

“Share,” Jig finally said seriously. “You should share.”

Dalton reached into his pocket again and thought it over. “Does… do they have to be
my
words?”

“Only you can tell your story,” Jig replied.

“Someone else tells it better.”

Jig hesitated for a moment while looking at Dalton curiously. “Well, I guess that’d be just as good then.” He turned and headed for the podium that had been placed in the corner. “Alright, folks, get settled. Take your seats.” Jig waited for the bustle to die down before starting. “Some of you have seen my friend coming ‘round these parts for a while and I think we’re going to kick off by finally introducing him.”

Several heads turned to Dalton who now knew how bears felt at the zoo. Jig broke the tension by rapping his knuckles on the wood. There was no microphone. The room was that big.

“Come on, son.”

Dalton wove his way through the small group, past Mrs. Hunt’s piano that was still pushed up against the wall. Irrationally he wondered if it was still out of tune. He stepped up to the podium as Jig moved off to find a seat of his own. Dalton pretended to be waiting until the large man was settled in. He knew he was stalling, though. Jig knew, too, because he gave Dalton an encouraging nod as he sat down.

Dalton cleared his throat and looked out at the faces in front of him. He vaguely knew some of these people. He’d seen them in church a few times growing up. None of them were friends of Mom and Pop, though, so he didn’t recall any of their names. Which, he supposed, was the point anyway.

“I’m Dalton,” he said.

The sea of faces returned his greeting. “Hi, Dalton.”

He’d seen this before and he knew how it went, but he suddenly felt sympathetic toward anyone who had the courage to get up here and do this. God knew it wasn’t easy. In football, he’d had teeming crowds of fans watching his every move. It had felt awesome. They’d been waiting with baited breath for him to do great things. These people, however, knew he was a total shit. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

He supposed he better get the tough part out of the way first. Might as well jump off that cliff and get it over with. He’d seen the word before, on brochures for rehab, on his little blue book, on his coin. He knew this word, but he’d never said it before.

“I’m an alcoholic.”

No one said anything. They just nodded like a sea of bobbleheads. They weren’t dolls, though, Dalton reminded himself. They were people, just like him, and just like him they’d fucked up. He took a deep breath. “I’m not that great at talking about myself. Not sure if it’s because I think other people may not want to hear it or because maybe
I
don’t want to.” He cleared this throat again and reached into his pocket. This time his fingers slid past the coin to a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out slowly so as not to damage it. “I know I’m supposed to tell my own story, but like I said, I’m not good at that kind of thing. So, maybe… maybe if you don’t mind, someone else could tell it for me.”

He took a deep breath to steady his hands and unfolded the letter. He smoothed it out carefully and laid it on the lectern.

“
Dear Dalton
…”

“Adam is supposed to give this to you when I’m gone. It’s a shame he has to do it because these are things I should have said a while ago. Seems like more than just your hand was damaged. I saw Elaine one Sunday and she said you and Zoey were finished. I was sorry to hear it, even more sorry to hear it from her than from you.

I know things have been hard for you these days, but you've got to correct your course before it's too late. It's no secret I like Zoey. You're better when you're with her. I'm worried about you, Dalton. I want to go on knowing that you're going to be alright, but it seems like I don't know that.

Swallow your pride and say you're sorry for whatever it is you did wrong, because Zoey wouldn't have left unless you pushed her away. I know your life seems like it's taken a turn for the worse, but all is not lost, Dalton. I promise you. But
you
can be lost and you must make sure that doesn't happen.

Help Adam take care of Daddy, Ava, and Jonah. It'll help you, too.

I'm above you, but I'm also around you and in you. You're never alone.

Love Always,

Mom.”

“Mom didn’t know about my drinking, but she knew something wasn’t right. I had an accident,” he said, lifting his hand. “Wasn't my fault. I wasn't even really drinking all the way back then. In fact, I think that's why I started, because it
wasn't
my fault and it didn't seem fair. I don't have much, but I had these two hands, and that was enough. I could do great things with them, build houses, build furniture, make beautiful things. So when I couldn't, I did terrible things with them instead. I signed for a loan I couldn't cover and my brother nearly lost everything he owned trying to pay it back for me. I put them on a woman whose name I don't even remember and threw away the best thing I had going for me, the
only
thing I had going for me. By the time my mom died I was spending every day wasted. I couldn’t even stand up at her funeral. I should have built my mother's coffin, but I was too drunk and feeling too sorry for myself, and now she's spending eternity in a steel and pine mousetrap. She deserved better. A better coffin and a better son.”

He cleared his throat again, wallowing — out loud at least— was not really his thing. “Anyway, I'm working on it, making up for what I can.”

He quickly stepped away from the podium and began carefully re-folding the letter. It had the added bonus of keeping him from having to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. It was awkward, sharing his story with other people, especially since it was pretty mild in comparison to some others he’d heard, tragic tales of busted up families, kids not speaking to their parents any more, stories about long prison sentences where even after you made it out, the world you left behind when you went inside didn’t suddenly stop moving and wait for your return. Dalton had only been in rehab a few weeks, when he’d emerged his older brother had taken over as head of the family.

Dalton made his way to the back of the room. Jig had vacated his seat and followed him to the refreshment table.

“It was a good one,” Jig declared. Dalton didn’t know what else to do but nod.

As Dalton’s sponsor, Jig knew about Mom and how she’d died. He knew about Pop and the ever-present threat of an episode. Dalton had never mentioned Zoey, though. He still didn’t like talking about her.

“So,” said Jig as he picked up a stale doughnut. “Any chance of fixing things with your woman someday?”

Dalton frowned. It seemed what he liked was of little concern these days. “No,” he told Jig. “She’s done. Gone.”

“That why you don’t want a plant?”

“Your plant is three years old,” Dalton pointed out.

Instead of being offended, Jig laughed. “I’m pushing fifty and I’m missing a few of my teeth. I’d
like
to date, but they aren’t exactly lining up.”

It was on the tip of Dalton’s tongue to ask how Jig stayed so optimistic after all this time, how he kept the dog on a leash, so-to-speak, but it didn’t seem right to ask.

“You’ve got all
your
teeth, though,” Jig replied. “And you’re looking pretty good.”

Dalton scoffed. “I think maybe you were inside too long.”

Jig cackled loudly. “I know
that’s
right!” More calmly, he said, “I’m not pushing you. I’m just reminding you that there’s a world out there aside from punching a time clock. Your life is not over, Dalton. You drop anchor now and you’re going to sink straight to the bottom.”

The meeting concluded with the usual prayer. Dalton stayed to put the chairs away and so he was the last to leave. He turned off the light before trudging back up the basement steps. A chilly blast of night air hit him as he stepped outside. He crossed the parking lot quickly toward the warm (warmer, anyway) cab of the truck. As he zipped his jacket higher, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw it was Ava. He groaned. It was Friday night, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time his little sister had gone out late after dinner, had a few drinks, and called Dalton to get her home.

The first time, Dalton had been horrified and angry at her behavior. His barely sixteen year old sister had gotten hammered at a football game. At least she’d been smart enough not to accept a ride home with anyone. Dalton had grudgingly picked her up that night, paying to get into a ball game that he couldn’t even stay to watch. As he’d searched for Ava, he’d wondered if that’s what kids were doing in the stands while he’d been sacking quarterbacks all those years ago. Probably.

He was pretty sure Adam, while being well-intentioned and
trying
to attend Dalton’s home games, had never actually made it past the parking lot. Adam, though, had been too busy doing girls in the backseat of Mom’s car to do much of anything else. Dalton had to admit that he’d had his own fair share of post-game partying. Not too much, though, because he hadn’t wanted to fuck up his game. He’d eventually accepted that Ava was no different than he had been at that age and had agreed not to rat her out to their parents provided that she knew her limit, stayed safe, and always called him.

While he was dealing with his own shit over the summer, he’d forgotten about their arrangement. Ava hadn’t called him in a long time. He briefly wondered who had taken his place. Adam would tear her a new one, especially now with Mom gone, he suspected. So it wasn’t the oldest Stark brother who was covering for her. Maybe she usually called Jonah and he was busy tonight, though it was difficult to imagine a piercing emergency this late.

Dalton pressed the button to answer the call and tried to ignore the impending awkwardness of the conversation. As uncomfortable as it would be, who better to be your designated driver than your sober older brother, he supposed.

“Ava,” he said into the phone. “Listen, I’ll come pick you up, but we need to talk. I… I don’t think this is appropriate anymore, especially since you’re still in high school. I know I let it slide before, but I don’t think I can anymore.”

It was difficult to find the words even though his vocabulary had expanded considerably over the last few months. It now included words like ‘enabler’, and that was the last thing he wanted to be. Maybe it was time to put his foot down with Ava.

“Where are you and I’ll-”

“It’s not me,” Ava said quietly into the phone.

Dalton’s insides now felt as cold as his skin. “Is it Pop? Where’s Adam? Can he handle it until I get there? I’m just a few blocks away.”

He started to jog to the truck and then Ava responded.

“No,” she said again, still half-whispering. “It’s not us.”

“Ava-”

“Dalton, it’s Zoey.”

Dalton came to an abrupt halt, his black work boots crunching the salt that had been laid down in case the temperature dropped too far overnight. Zoey? Zoey was gone. She didn’t even live in Rapid City anymore. She’d moved on. In fact, she was so far gone she was engaged, or so Mom had told him. He supposed it was even possible she was married by now. Mom had been his only source of updates and when she’d passed, so had his ability to hear even the slightest bit of information about her. He’d come to assume that was the best thing. It had been hard, damn hard, to hear that she’d met someone else and so soon after Dalton had run her off. But what did he expect?

Zoey had put up with his shit for a long time, even before the drinking had gotten beyond his control. There had been surgeries on his hand, he’d missed work, his income had all but dried up. All of that contributed to him not being the easiest bastard to live with those last several months. Zoey had finally left and met someone better, which wouldn’t have been difficult, honestly. He’d been an ass and that was putting it kindly.

“What do you mean Zoey?” he demanded. “Where are you? Where’s
she
? Ava, what is going on?”

“Hang
up
, Ava!”

Dalton’s fingers tightened on the phone. Hearing her voice after all this time tore at him, especially since he’d been resigned to never hearing it again. “Zoey,” he whispered. His breath came out in a fog.

“We’re at the drugstore,” Ava told him.

“Ava!” Zoey pleaded.

“You need to come,” Ava insisted.

“I’ll be there,” Dalton said firmly. “I’m three blocks away.”

He disconnected the call as his entire body started to vibrate like a live wire. Zoey was here. She was in town. She was so close. Whatever was going on, he’d get to see her again one more time. So far he’d avoided her, even as he’d made his list. He’d put her name on it then scratched it out at least a dozen times, but here she was in Rapid City. As he bolted for the truck he looked back at the glowing white cross set against the cold, black sky.

One night after a meeting he’d stood in this parking lot and prayed for another chance with her. He’d considered it a moment of weakness at the time. He’d sent Zoey away, in the most brutal way possible. It had been what she deserved, not the pain, but a better life for herself, one he could no longer provide. He’d made the decision in a whiskey–fueled haze, but now that he was sober it still seemed like the right thing to do.

He threw open the cab door and jumped into the truck. He gunned the engine and was grateful there was no ice on the roads as he floored it to the light on the corner. Zoey was here and, whether he liked it or not, he had so many things to say to her.