Page 45 of Small Town, Big Storm

I grab a beer from the fridge, push out onto the back deck, drinking deeply as I try to think.

But it’s fucking hard with this place pushing in on me from all sides.

The memories.

The cursing and shouting.

The neighbors.

I shove my hands into my pocket, feel a crinkle, and?—

“Jesus,” I mutter, pulling out the hundred-dollar bill I gave Poppy the other night.

Stubborn fucking woman.

“Looks like you need this.”

I don’t bother answering.Not that Rain gives a fuck.He completely ignores myignoringand comes out onto the porch, leans against the railing beside me.

At least he holds out another beer.

I hadn’t even realized I finished mine.

He’s dressed now and has presumably spent the last however long I’ve been out here on the rickety deck—long enough for the sun to fully set and dusk to settle around me—cleaning up the water inside.

But I don’t ask.

Because I don’t care.

Idon’t.

So why do I feel like the asshole for not helping?

He sighs, says quietly, “I figured with everything, you’d want to have a home base here.”

I frown.“What are you talking about?”

“With Poppy here,” he murmurs.“And Holly.”

My lungs seize.What the actual fuck?I drop the bottle on the railing with athunk.“You knew?”I growl.“Are you telling me you fuckingknew?”

He knew and he let me stay away?

He knew and he didn’t tell me?

He knew?—

“I only came back last year,” he says quietly.“When Dad had the fall.”

A fall I didn’t—don’t—know about.

A fall I don’t give a fuck about.

Idon’t.

“When did you find out?”I grit out.

“About Dad?”