The Way Home (Chasing #3) Read Online Free
look inside. It was better that way.
The walls were thin and still the same dirt tinged antique white that they’d been when I’d sold the house. Nothing had changed on the inside except for a few new holes I’d discovered in the sheetrock. Someone had obviously driven their fists through the walls. The holes weren’t that bad. They could be repaired; nothing a little plaster and a fresh coat of paint couldn’t handle. The same could be said for the cabinets and drawers.
If only life could be as simple, and all of the imperfections and ugly could be covered with a simple Band-Aid of a fix. But there were some things you just couldn’t hide, no matter how many layers of plaster or paint you used to try to conceal it. There weren’t enough Band-Aid’s in all of the world to cover the gaping hole in my chest left by Natalie’s absence.
The humming of the ancient Maytag refrigerator echoed in the silence of the house, keeping time with the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. In an odd way, it was kind of soothing. I’d been in such a hurry to get the hell out of Crawley, I’d ended up leaving everything behind. Thankfully, the Logan’s hadn’t bothered with discarding any of the old furniture, and I’d been able to dig most of it out from the shed in back and had also discovered Hank in the process. There was only me and the stray, but he didn’t get a say in anything since he was a glorified moocher.
I opened the refrigerator door and snagged a cold beer from inside, twisting the lid off and flicking it onto the kitchen table; I watched it bounce just for the hell of it. With the toe of my boot, I nudged out a chair and took a seat. I tilted the beer back, chugging half of it down in one gulp, and then I set the bottle on the table and opened the envelope lying before me. Hank whined, but I ignored him, and when nothing became of his attention whore seeking ways, he settled down near my feet. His head resting on the toe of my work boot.
The big pup was such a whiny baby. In the far corner of the kitchen near the pantry sat two bowls: one with his food, and the other for water; both still full. Hank was probably just lonely. Unlike me, in the solitude, I found comfort. I preferred my own company. No one around to judge me.
Unfolding the papers, I stared blankly down at the bill of sale in my hand while absently wondering to myself what in the hell had I been thinking by coming back home? There was nothing here but bad memories and heartache, and I’d do well to remember just that.
THE NEXT MORNING at 8:20 a.m., I pulled into the almost deserted parking lot outside of The Eight Ball. The sky was a mess of drizzling rain. There was an occasional clap of thunder. The gray overhead matched my current mood, which was downright shitty. I didn’t want to do this. I’d rather have been anywhere other than here. My plan had been solid, to operate the pool hall from afar. None of that monotonous day to day bullshit. So far that plan had been shot all to hell by one busybody meddler who went by the name of Mavis Davies.
A lone car sat in the lot; a beat up older model white Corolla. There was a huge ding in the hood and a matching one in the driver’s side door. Someone was already here. I reached for the handle of the door, and was surprised to find the entrance unlocked. The sign on the door stated the place didn’t open until ten. The smoky glass made it impossible to see inside. When I walked through the door, the smell of lemons and pine hung in the air. It was strong, but the floor beneath my boots gleamed in the overhead light.
My eyes immediately landed on a small girl with strawberry blonde pigtails that fell halfway down her back. She sat at a nearby table coloring. Thanks to the chime of the bell above the door, she was now staring back at me and clutching a yellow crayon in her tiny hand. It hovered over the opened book before her. Her bright blue eyes were the color of cornflowers and briefly
The walls were thin and still the same dirt tinged antique white that they’d been when I’d sold the house. Nothing had changed on the inside except for a few new holes I’d discovered in the sheetrock. Someone had obviously driven their fists through the walls. The holes weren’t that bad. They could be repaired; nothing a little plaster and a fresh coat of paint couldn’t handle. The same could be said for the cabinets and drawers.
If only life could be as simple, and all of the imperfections and ugly could be covered with a simple Band-Aid of a fix. But there were some things you just couldn’t hide, no matter how many layers of plaster or paint you used to try to conceal it. There weren’t enough Band-Aid’s in all of the world to cover the gaping hole in my chest left by Natalie’s absence.
The humming of the ancient Maytag refrigerator echoed in the silence of the house, keeping time with the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. In an odd way, it was kind of soothing. I’d been in such a hurry to get the hell out of Crawley, I’d ended up leaving everything behind. Thankfully, the Logan’s hadn’t bothered with discarding any of the old furniture, and I’d been able to dig most of it out from the shed in back and had also discovered Hank in the process. There was only me and the stray, but he didn’t get a say in anything since he was a glorified moocher.
I opened the refrigerator door and snagged a cold beer from inside, twisting the lid off and flicking it onto the kitchen table; I watched it bounce just for the hell of it. With the toe of my boot, I nudged out a chair and took a seat. I tilted the beer back, chugging half of it down in one gulp, and then I set the bottle on the table and opened the envelope lying before me. Hank whined, but I ignored him, and when nothing became of his attention whore seeking ways, he settled down near my feet. His head resting on the toe of my work boot.
The big pup was such a whiny baby. In the far corner of the kitchen near the pantry sat two bowls: one with his food, and the other for water; both still full. Hank was probably just lonely. Unlike me, in the solitude, I found comfort. I preferred my own company. No one around to judge me.
Unfolding the papers, I stared blankly down at the bill of sale in my hand while absently wondering to myself what in the hell had I been thinking by coming back home? There was nothing here but bad memories and heartache, and I’d do well to remember just that.
THE NEXT MORNING at 8:20 a.m., I pulled into the almost deserted parking lot outside of The Eight Ball. The sky was a mess of drizzling rain. There was an occasional clap of thunder. The gray overhead matched my current mood, which was downright shitty. I didn’t want to do this. I’d rather have been anywhere other than here. My plan had been solid, to operate the pool hall from afar. None of that monotonous day to day bullshit. So far that plan had been shot all to hell by one busybody meddler who went by the name of Mavis Davies.
A lone car sat in the lot; a beat up older model white Corolla. There was a huge ding in the hood and a matching one in the driver’s side door. Someone was already here. I reached for the handle of the door, and was surprised to find the entrance unlocked. The sign on the door stated the place didn’t open until ten. The smoky glass made it impossible to see inside. When I walked through the door, the smell of lemons and pine hung in the air. It was strong, but the floor beneath my boots gleamed in the overhead light.
My eyes immediately landed on a small girl with strawberry blonde pigtails that fell halfway down her back. She sat at a nearby table coloring. Thanks to the chime of the bell above the door, she was now staring back at me and clutching a yellow crayon in her tiny hand. It hovered over the opened book before her. Her bright blue eyes were the color of cornflowers and briefly
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