Comeback Route (New Hope #3)

Chapter Three

Vermillion, Pt. 2 – Slipknot

Grace, Twelve Years Old

The screen pops off, revealing a dirty window with curtains drawn across the glass. I step onto a broken portable AC to give myself some height, then slide the window open and climb into the house.

Before my feet hit the musty carpet, I know I'm in my father's old bedroom. There's a staleness to the air, like it hasn't been disturbed in years. Dust floats across my vision, landing on the scant surfaces—a dresser, a nightstand, and a twin bed with plain sheets. The comforter is army green, and twisted into a heap as if my dad simply woke up one morning and decided to never come back.

In a way, I suppose he did.

At seventeen, my father moved in with his pregnant girlfriend and her family. Two months after Momma gave birth, Mason left for college and never returned. Sure, he visits on holidays and birthdays, but those are semantics.

I'm grateful Randolph Reeves left the bedroom untouched. It's a literal window into my father's past. Momma never talks about Mason's childhood, apart from her relationship with him. She warned me and Aidan to never visit Randolph, but she didn't give us a reason. She didn't say Mason was a victim of child abuse.

It explains his absence, but doesn't justify it.

The dresser catches my attention first. More specifically, the boombox on top of it. I cross the room, careful to keep my tread light. The door is shut, but I can hear ESPN blaring from the television in what I assume is the living room. These houses all have the same floor plan, and I've been in Payton's enough to know the layout.

Old school CDs are propped on the dresser, braced against the wall. I brush my thumb over the artist's names, recognizing most of them. They're primarily rock, with a smattering of hip-hop and R&B to round out the collection. He even has Britney Spears, but I wonder if that belonged to Momma.

There's a framed photo of Mason and my mom on the bedside table. Aside from the picture and music collection, the room lacks personality. Most likely, this was a place for Mason to change clothes or lay his head when he had nowhere else to go. A last resort.

I press a button on the boombox, and the ancient machine bursts to life. The speakers vibrate, blasting Slipknot at full volume. I yank the power cord, ripping it from the wall. My heart pounds an erratic rhythm against my breastbone. I wait, straining my ears for the sound of approaching footsteps.

But if there's anyone in the living room, they didn't hear.

I take that as a good omen, and continue my perusal. I slide the closet door open, revealing a small collection of mundane clothing. There are a few Pemberton uniforms, as well as a football jersey with the name 'Reeves' printed across the back. It's riddled with grass stains.

Momma has the same one at home. She keeps it clean, ironed, and folded at the back of her walk-in closet. A secret, she thinks, but things don't stay hidden in our house for long. Not when I'm incapable of toning down my curiosity, especially where Mason is concerned.

That drawer is where I found a small photo album. It contained pictures of my parents I'd never seen before, and for good reason. There were quite a few suggestive poses, but it's the image of a teenaged Mason, Mallory, and David that I can't rid my mind of.

Momma was probably pregnant with us in the photo, but didn't realize it. David had no idea he'd be dead in a few years. My father's dreams of playing in the NFL would've been just that—dreams.

I want a way out.

That's what Payton had said when I asked if he wanted attention. I'm sure my father felt the same—that escape was a necessity. In the picture, Mason had two black eyes, a scraped cheek, and an exhausted grin. His happiness was genuine, but diminished. Like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. Mallory and David were unburdened, yet my father carried shadows on his shoulders.