Page 11 of Small Town, Big Storm

“Who was that, Mommy?”she asks sleepily as I bring her into her bedroom, tucking her and her stuffed goose, Gerald, under the covers and lying down beside her.

Her eyes are half-mast—and she has no idea how loaded that drowsy question is.

But I don’t allow my thoughts to drift down that dangerous road.

Instead, I cuddle her closer and give her the truth.

Or a version of it, anyway.

“An old friend, baby.”

Four

Storm

Tap.Tap.Tap.

Groaning, I scrub my hands over my face, then roll over and clamp my pillow over my head.

Too early.

Too fucking bright.

Too damned quiet.Or not.Because?—

Tap.Tap.Tap.

“Christ,” I mutter, pulling it more tightly over my ears, trying to muffle the annoying sound.

Which works…absolutely not at all.

Tap.Tap.Tap.Tap!

“Motherfucker!”I snap, tossing the pillow aside and throwing the threadbare fabric that counts as a blanket back.Dust billows up as I storm past the faded posters of video games and swimsuit models, the grimy trophies and medals, the faded and dogeared books.

But I’m not staring at my pointless accomplishments or the tattered remains of my past.

I listening to that fuckingtap, tap, tap.

It gets louder as I march out into the hall, as I pound down the stairs, as I turn for the kitchen and?—

“What theactualfuck?”I snap as I find the source of the tapping.

My fucking brother just looks up at me with a surprised Pikachu face.“What?”he asks and when I just glare at him, he shrugs and turns back to the backsplash tile he’s removing.

Tap.Tap.Tap.

“There’s coffee,” he says.

Tap.Tap.Tap.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Anther shrug.“Removing this ugly ass tile.”

“Why?”

“I’m tired of looking at it.”