Starting With You

47. I let my feet lead the way.

Jensen

COMING HOME TO TEDDY IN MY APARTMENT yesterday was a sucker-punch to the gut. How many times over the last few months have I taken that sight for granted? Then she walked out again, and the apartment felt so empty and lonely.

I talked myself out of driving into town and dragging her back home with me. I know I was the one who said I needed space, but I didn't realize how awful the space would feel. I regret everything.

I opted for texting her instead of kidnapping her. I knew it was a bit of a cop out since she'd prefer a real conversation face to face, but until I am ready to talk about everything, to face it myself, texting felt like my only option.

I promised her I would work on it, and I meant it. I can't lose her. But I'm not entirely sure how to sort through these feelings.

I groan, my head falling back on my office chair. That's a lie. I do know what to do; I just desperately do not want to do it.

It feels like a decade too late to talk to the girl who so carelessly walked away from me when I needed her the most. And my dad? The guy I looked up to all these years turns out to be a complete fake. How do I reconcile that when I can't stand the thought of being in the same room as him?

But I need to do something because I've managed to damage the one and only good thing in my life. I need to repair my relationship with Teddy.

I hear laughing right outside my window and I bolt upright in my chair in recognition. I'd know that laugh anywhere; and it feels like lifetimes since I've heard that happy sound.

Walking over to my window, I look through the slat in the blinds to see Teddy and Rylie huddled around a phone. I crack the window open a few inches so I can hear their voices. Whatever Rylie is showing Teddy on her phone is making Teddy laugh, and I smile as I watch her face light up.

When she looks over at Rylie, the smile fades, and Rylie wipes her hand across Teddy's cheeks and brings her in for a hug. They're talking too quietly for me to make out what they're saying, but I've seen enough. I can't stand seeing her cry.

As I cross the room, Scout wakes from his nap in a pool of sunlight and immediately shoots to his feet. He's out the door before me, beating me over to the girls, practically tackling Teddy the minute he reaches her.

She bends at the knees and struggles to pick him up. He's really gotten too big for it. "Hey, you naughty little boy."

He licks her face, and she laughs. The minute she notices me, she sobers and lowers Scout to the ground. "Here's your dog."

"Don't say that shit," I say harsher than I intended. I soften my voice. "He's always been ours."

Rylie clears her throat and attempts to leave, but Teddy places a hand on her arm. "You stay," she says as she backs away. "I'll see you later, ok?"

"Why would I stay?" Rylie calls after her. "These doofuses are yours, not mine."

When she faces me, her expression turns serious. I'm not sure what she sees when she looks at me—probably my desperation, regret, and sadness—but she declares, "Your mess. You fix it."

-

I RUN ALL THE WAY TO MY DAD'S AGAIN, but this time I don't go inside like I intended. Seeing the yellow door reminds me of the day my parents played basketball to see who picked the color. Echoes of their laughter bounce around my head.

Instead of going inside to face my dad, I leave, meandering around until I find myself in front of Townies, one of three bars in Lake Hope. It's the place we frequent the least, so the odds of running into any of my family and friends are the lowest.

I pull open the door and blink, my eyes trying to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dark tavern.

Old country music blasts from the vintage jukebox, and the air is stale, smelling of spilled beer and old popcorn.

I sink into one of the stools at the bar and drum my fingers on the sticky surface, looking around for the bartender. Minutes pass before a balding man with a beer belly emerges from the back, tipping his head at me in acknowledgement.

"What'll it be?"

"Whatever you have on tap is fine," I answer, spinning on the stool to see if I recognize anyone. The only other person is an older woman dressed in a jean skirt and a tight blouse. She's working her way through a stack of pull tabs, probably hoping to pull the big $200 winner.

The bartender sets my beer in front of me and takes my money. The first sip tastes good, the liquid cooling my throat as it goes down. I drink it quickly and ask for a refill. And then another.

Before I know it, the bar is filling up with people. The after-work crowd, I suspect. My phone says it's 6:30.

"Hey, Hal," I call to the bartender. We exchanged names after beer number two or three, I forget. "Got any food in this place?"

"Just pizza. The frozen kind."

I point at him. "That'll do. And another beer."

By the time I leave, it's dark outside. I remember too late that I ran into town, which is probably for the best since I'm entirely too drunk to drive. Instead, I let my feet lead the way.