so his belongings are few. He brought all of his clothes and a toothbrush with him. What’s left? A pillow and bedding. His winter coat and boots. Pots and pans and a set of dishes scored for next to nothing at the Goodwill.
The security bottle of Jack tucked into the closet, just in case. The one on the top shelf of the pantry, behind the cereal, although Charlie has likely discovered and drained that one by now. None of it is worth the hassle of finding transportation.
He texts back: Keep it.
Charlie: You mad?
Braden contemplates the question. No emotion surfaces. He doesn’t care, one way or the other. If he can’t fix things with Allie, nothing will matter. He deletes Charlie from his contacts. Blocks his number, mentally erases him.
The bottle of booze in the closet in his old bedroom is more persistent. He can see it. Feel the weight and heft of it in his hands, the smell of the whiskey as he opens the bottle and . . .
He has got to do something useful. What do normal people do with their time? Cleaning. Cooking.
Groceries.
He latches on to the thought like a life ring tossed to a drowning man. They need groceries. It will give him something to do. Vegetables. Bread. Milk and cereal. Maybe some chicken. Allie used to love a chicken-and-rice casserole when she was little. Just because she’s developed a hatred for oatmeal doesn’t mean she doesn’t still like chicken.
While he’s at it, he’ll buy comfort foods to tempt her out of her shell. Potato chips. Chocolate. Ice cream. Peanut butter. Maybe he’ll make Rice Krispie treats.
Shopping will get him out of the house, away from the cello and his memories.
Maybe you could buy yourself a little something to take the edge off. You deserve it.
He tells himself he’s not listening to that temptation, but it takes up a cadence with his footsteps all the way to the store.
Chapter Twelve
ALLIE
Allie begins the day with good intentions. Monday again. A whole new week. Perfect time to make a new beginning. She’ll go to school, she’ll talk to Steph, she’ll buy a phone so she can stay connected. Maybe she’ll even say good morning to her father and eat some breakfast. After all, she did invite him into the house, and the snacks she’s been eating to keep her going while she punishes him by refusing meals are not really sustaining.
Her stomach growls in harmony with her thoughts, and she thinks of yesterday’s uneaten bacon and eggs with regret, her mouth watering in anticipation. But when she walks into the kitchen, instead of bacon and eggs and perfectly toasted sourdough, she’s assailed by the smell of oatmeal. A memory weakens her knees.
Mom standing at the counter, making sandwiches for school lunches. It’s supposed to be Daddy’s job. Mom sleeps days after working nights at the hospital. The last couple of weeks Allie has made the sandwiches, because Daddy’s hands hurt him. Sometimes he’s still asleep when Allie and Trey leave for school. On those mornings, there is an empty bottle on the table.
This morning, there’s no bottle, and Mom is making sandwiches, and Allie feels in the pit of her stomach that something even more horrible than the accident to Daddy’s hands has happened. Mom’s back looks strange, her whole body stiff and un-bendy, and she doesn’t turn around when she says, “Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Fine,” Allie says, but it’s a lie. What Daddy calls her spidey senses are all quivering. Her body feels hot. Something is wrong, but she’s learned that asking Mom questions when something is wrong is not a good idea. Trey, shoving past her into the kitchen, has yet to learn this truth. He bounces across the floor, Tigger style, and clatters into a chair.
“Is Daddy sick again? Why aren’t you sleeping? Can I have Frosted Flakes?”
Allie holds her breath, waiting.
Mom doesn’t turn around, nor does she answer the important question.
“No to the Frosted Flakes. I’ve made oatmeal. Allie, would you dish some up for your brother, please?”
Allie stretches up on her tiptoes to reach bowls from the cupboard. Gets a big spoon from the drawer. Mom clatters knives around way too loudly for the requirements of sandwich making. The cheese falls onto the floor—smoosh.
But she doesn’t pick it up, just braces both hands on the countertop, head bent, and stands there. A choking sound comes out of her, and she turns and fast walks out of the kitchen. She keeps her