Why Now? (6 page)

Her screams caught my attention. Pedaling my bike in the direction of them, concerned curiosity brought me to her rescue.

When I saw them, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. She was on her knees, her back to the boys, her body curved over something. Her head was turned and she was screaming at the boys, telling them to go away and kicking out with her leg when one of them stepped nearer.

She was small, her kicks pathetic from a distance. What was she covering? Then I watched one of the boys return her kick with one of his own. The shock of it froze me.

Her small body lurched and he lifted his leg to kick her again. Red filtered across my vision and I flew at them. What happened next was all a blur of fists.

In the end, I broke the nose of one, gave another a black eye, and knocked the third out cold. Old Man Graham from across the way was driving past and pulled over, stopping me from hurting them any more than I already had.

He loaded Kacey, the dog, and me into his beat up Buick and drove us home. It wasn’t until we were in the car that it dawned on me the girl I helped was my neighbor.

Her family was new to our street and I couldn’t remember her name, so I called her Killer. I figured it fit since she was brave enough to take on three boys all on her own. I still call her Killer from time to time.

It didn’t matter that she was smaller than them, she wasn’t the kind of girl who would ever watch someone or something being hurt and not step in.

She’ll be the type of mother who will move heaven and earth to protect her kids. Old Man Graham ended up adopting that dog since Kacey’s dad was allergic and Grams was scared of big dogs.

The dog was only a puppy when Kacey saved it, a pit puppy. He grew to be massive.

That didn’t stop Kacey from tackle hugging him every time she saw Old Man Graham walking him.

Used to crack me up, that dog scared everyone but her. Only the three of us knew why he’d never bite her. She would always be his hero, and in a way, I was hers.

It was on that thought that I fell asleep.

Thanks to my internal alarm clock, I’m showered and dressed before Heath. Not wanting to raid his fridge, I venture out for breakfast, leaving him a note and taking his spare key with me.

The sleepy little town I grew up in has changed over the years. One thing I hope never changes is Lola’s Diner. There’s a decent breakfast crowd this morning so I head for the counter instead of waiting for a booth.

“Haven’t seen you in ages, Jake. You still working on that rig?” I get by way of greeting as I slide onto a stool.

“Morning, Mrs. Fairlane. Yes ma’am, still on the rig.”

“Honey, you’re old enough to call me by my first name now and have been for at least a decade. How many times do I need to tell you that?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer since she already knows what I’ll say. “You want a coffee and the usual?”

Grinning at her, I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

She clucks her tongue at me before turning to call out my order and pour me a cup of coffee. The mugs are all mismatched at Lola’s. Somewhere amongst them is a Santa Barbara mug I gave them.

Over the years, almost everyone in town has given her a mug or two.

They have so many that they had a cool shelf put in to cover the back wall of the diner to display the ones they aren’t using.

They rotate them out too, well the ones that aren’t too fragile or don’t have a particular special meaning.

Those mugs are on the top shelf of that unit and never get used for customers anymore. The mug I got today is shaped like an owl and the base reads Owlbuquerque, NM.

Lifting it to my nose, I inhale. The coffee we drink on the rig resembles sludge it’s so strong. Lola’s coffee is a thing of beauty in comparison.

Mrs. Fairlane interrupts my unconscious homage to her coffee. “How long are you in town for, Jake?”

Setting my owl mug down I straighten. “Not sure. Maybe long enough to finally talk you into running away with me.”

Mrs. Fairlane could easily be my grandmother. It’s still fun to make her blush.

“I’m too old for you and we both know it, Jake Whitmore,” she laughs.

“Jake?”

Both of our heads turn at the sound of my name being called.

The voice belongs to a woman I don’t recognize. She’s pretty, though, with a rockabilly look to her. Her black hair is pulled up in a ponytail; blunt cut bangs covering her forehead. Tattoos peek out from the sleeves of her polka dotted dress, an apron tied at her waist.

She works here but I still have no idea who she is even though she obviously knows me.

It’s Mrs. Fairlane to the rescue. “You remember my granddaughter, Sydney, don’t you?”

My eyes widen. “Sydney Fairlane? I didn’t even recognize you. I thought you had blonde hair.”

Sydney grins as Mrs. Fairlane shakes her head. “I dyed it.” She hitches her thumb towards her grandmother. “It drives Gigi nuts.”

Mrs. Fairlane looks upward and addresses the ceiling. “The good Lord gives her beautiful blonde hair and what does she do? Dyes it black.” Her eyes move back to Sydney. “Keep Jake company while I check on his food.”

Sydney stops her as she passes and kisses her cheek. Mrs. Fairlane continues to grumble about such a waste of glorious hair as she goes but does it smiling.

Sydney rolls her eyes before turning to me. “She loves to bitch. She hates my hair and all of my tattoos. Thank God she doesn’t know about my piercings.”

It’s an effort to keep my face neutral and my eyes from searching for any mystery piercings.

“I haven’t seen you in forever, Jake. How’ve you been?”

Sydney was never in my immediate circle of friends when I lived here, mainly because she was closer to Reilly’s age than mine. I’ve always been a regular at Lola’s when I lived here and every time I visit. Over the years, we’ve formed somewhat of a diner style friendship.

“Nothing new with me. Still working the rig. I’m in town to meet with the realtor of Gramp’s house and see Reilly.”

At Reilly’s name, her face brightens. “It’s so cool to see all the reports she does on the news. We have a TV,” she points toward a flat screen mounted in one corner. “It’s usually on mute with the subtitles going, but when Reilly comes on we listen to her reports.”

The subtitles are on since the diner plays oldies. There are even mini jukeboxes on each of the booth tables where you can pick the next song that plays for a nickel.

“She emails me links sometimes. I catch up on them when I’m off the rig. What have you been up to? Last time I was in town your grandmother told me you were living in San Fran.”

She leans forward to drum her fingers on the counter. “It was a total bust. I followed a guy up there. He turned out to be a fu-,” she cringes, glancing to the customer sitting next to me before continuing, “friggin loser, a lazy one who didn’t want to get a job and thought I’d pay for everything. No, thank you. So, I’m back.”

Mrs. Fairlane returns with my food. “Here you go, hon.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

She clucks her tongue at me and moves on to refill someone’s coffee at the other end of the counter.

“Are you back for good or heading off again?” I ask.

For as long as I’ve known Sydney, she’s been flighty. In the last five years, she’s lived in no less than ten different places, all over the country.

She tips her head in Mrs. Fairlane’s direction. “She wants to retire and for me to take over the place.”

The diner has been family owned and run since it first opened its doors. The reason Sydney’s parents haven’t taken over the place is because they no longer live in town.

Her mom was a transplant from the east coast and talked Mr. Fairlane into moving back there years ago. Without any brothers or sisters, if Sydney doesn’t take the place over, her grandmother will have to sell it.

“What do you want to do?”

She leans forward, her elbow on the counter, her chin in her hand. “I have no fu-friggin clue. Do I want to run a diner?” She lifts her shoulder like the movement is her answer. “A piece of me would disappear if Lola’s didn’t exist. This diner has been a home away from home for so long and it’s not like I have this burning desire to do something else with my life.”

“Running this place wouldn’t be a life sentence if you decided it wasn’t the right fit.”

Straightening, she squints one of her eyes at me and says, “Not a life sentence. Only you would see that.”

Her remark surprises me. “Why would you say that?”

Turning to head to the back, she pauses to look over her shoulder at me. “You’re serving time yourself.”

She’s gone before I can reply. Mrs. Fairlane comes to check on me and refills my coffee while I quietly eat, contemplating my conversation with Sydney.

You’re serving time yourself
—truer words were never spoken. Only a few people know what I gave up to take on my grandparent’s debt.

I leave money on the counter to cover my bill, along with a healthy tip and leave. At the door, I catch Mrs. Fairlane’s eye and give a salute. There’s no reason to bother with goodbye yet, she’ll see me again.

My realtor’s office is a short walk from the diner. Since we planned to meet, Rich is waiting for me in the parking lot.

We take his car over to my grandparent’s house. Memories hit me the minute we pull into the drive. No matter how long I’ve been gone, this place will always be the last place I thought of as home. It’s your typical two-story craftsman. It was built sometime in the 70’s and was my Gram’s dream home.

How much she loved this house shined through in each and every room. She kept it neat as a pin, spending far too much time dusting and sweeping towards the end, given her age. It was a great place to grow up.

Thanks to the water restrictions, the grass in the yard looked like shit. However, the hedges and flowerbeds seemed maintained.

Everything looks good until we get inside.

“What the fuck happened?” I ask, turning, trying to take in the damage.

Rich shakes his head, his mouth hanging open before replying, “I have no idea.”

“Did the tenants do this?” I press, gesturing to the wall in front of us.

It’s covered with holes and graffiti.

“No, no. I’m sure they didn’t. A member of our office did a walk through with them before they turned in their key. There was no damage reported.”

Moving through the house, the damage only increases. Towards the back of the house is evidence of a party. There are beer cans and even pipes on the floor.

Rich stops me before I head upstairs. “I think we should call the police.”

“What are they going to do?” I boom. “Are they going to dust for prints and find the punks who trashed my house? I doubt it.”

Turning my back on him, I move upstairs.

Fuck.

It’s even worse up here.

All of the bathrooms are trashed. It looks like some asshole took a baseball bat to the tile and mirrors. Mentally, I start doing the math. Even if I wanted to sell it, there’s no way I could break even with it in this condition and the amount of money it would take to repair everything.

At the top of the stairs, it hits me and I sit down right there. The destruction I’m sitting in does not reconcile in my mind with the place I grew up in.

It’s a good thing Gram is dead. Seeing her home like this would have killed her. Lord knows what Reilly will think if she sees it. If?

There’s a lot of shit to do with the house that I’ve kept from her, but there will be no way I can hide this.

Will I ever be free?

When I came out here, I thought I was so close. Seems like a few more years have been added to my sentence.

Getting back to my feet, I make my way down the stairs. Rich was right, I need to at least file a police report. More than likely, they’ll never be caught, but there’s insurance on this house. Hopefully, vandalism is covered. If it’s not, I’m screwed.

Rich takes one look at me and says, “I’ll call them.”

Not long after, two uniforms come to take the report. The four of us walk the perimeter and find what we guess was the point of entry—the busted backdoor.

Since none of the vandals were helpful enough to leave a form of ID amongst the debris, the officers confirm my suspicion that there’s little chance we’ll find out who did this.

“There has been a rise in cases like this,” One of them says. “They’ll find a vacant house, throw a party, and tear it apart.”

Rich shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the kids nowadays.”

The officer agrees. “My partner and I are going to go see if we can interview any of your neighbors. If anything turns up,” he lifts the notebook he used to take down my contact info, “we’ll be in touch. Here’s my card,” he passes it to me, “in case you need to get a hold of me.”

After I thank them both for their time, Rich takes me back to his office leaving the key for the house with me.

He can’t do anything with the house, whether it is rent it out or try to sell it, until it’s fixed up. Sympathetically, he squeezes my shoulder before he heads off to meet his next appointment.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I call Reilly, not looking forward to ruining her day.