The Survivor - Cristin Harber Page 0,68
own transportation and an exit plan made this day that much more hellacious.
The drive from the rental lot was a short one. He sped onto the interstate, and just as fast, yanked the steering wheel to exit on Eastern Parkway. Sometime during the flight from D.C. to Louisville, he’d managed to believe that going home would fix everything. As soon as he hit the brakes at the stoplight, Hagan realized he was dead-ass wrong.
The light turned green. His head still pounded. Hagan drove through the familiar neighborhood. The road curved one way. Then the next. Everything was the same. Everything was always the same. A blessing and a curse. But it should’ve helped with the pain.
He slapped the turn signal and gnashed his teeth as he made one turn and then another until he could see his end goal. Three driveways until he was home. He eased off the gas pedal and wished to hell that the half-bottle of antacids he’d downed would do their job.
He pulled into the driveway, glared at a man in their small yard holding a rake, and threw the car door open hard enough to bend the hinges. Before either man could say a word, the front door flew open, and Roxana launched herself off the front porch.
“You’re home!” She tackled Hagan in a blunt-force hug he barely felt. “You should have called.”
“Will next time.” He wrapped his arms around his sister, waiting for the pain to go away, then lifted his chin to Roxana’s boyfriend, who was warily watching from the edge of their postage-stamp-sized yard.
Jason threw the rake to the side and approached with caution. “Good to see you, man.”
Hagan grunted.
Roxana tightened her hug, then abruptly let go. “Wait—why are you home?”
He forced his teeth to separate. “Felt like it.”
Knowing bullshit when she heard it, his sister scrutinized. “You’re hurt?”
“No.”
Her sharp assessment ran from his face to his limbs and back. “You certainly aren’t pleasant. What’s wrong?”
Hagan worked his jaw. “I had a job on the East Coast. I wanted to stop by home.”
Roxana clapped her hands on her hips. Jason wrapped his arm over her shoulder. “Give him a minute before you interrogate the poor guy.”
“Fine.”
Jason made a face that warned Hagan he was on his own after they got inside. “Can I get your bag?”
“I didn’t bring one.”
His answer didn’t offer a reason for Roxana to ease up. “Let’s go inside. Mom’s in the kitchen.”
“Give him some room, babe.” Jason cajoled Roxana toward the house.
Grumbling, Roxana let them up the front porch stairs. “Mom,” she called, “Hagan’s home.”
Hagan tossed his keys on the well-used entryway table and took a deep breath. Home always smelled like dinner and laundry. Today was no different. He guessed a roast was in the crock-pot. The farther he walked into the long, narrow shotgun house, the more certain he was that what had happened with Amanda would be a distant memory.
Except, he stopped in the living room and felt sick. The walls on either side of the large picture window were blanketed with family photos. Dylan’s honors gleamed in the warm glow of fall’s afternoon light.
Maybe he shouldn’t have come home. Hagan turned for the kitchen. The dark hardwood floors creaked in the same spot. The same quilt was laid over the same couch. Why did Hagan think home would help him see his way through this level of hell?
His steps quieted on the worn hallway runner until he stepped into the kitchen. The linoleum creaked under his feet. His mom sat in her wheelchair at the kitchen table, and he found it near impossible to form words.
“Hey, Mom,” he managed and bent in front of her gaze. She’d never smile or say hello again, but part of Hagan believed she knew he was there. He kissed her cheek. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Roxana clucked from the counter, dicing carrots.
He ignored his sister and crouched next to Mom. Hagan laid a hand on top of hers, then straightened the gray-and-yellow crocheted blanket draped across her legs. “I like your shirt,” he added, touching the sleeve of the blue Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt layered loosely over another shirt.
“Blasphemy,” Jason called from the living room.
“This will always be a house divided,” Roxana reminded Hagan as if he’d been gone too long to recall that she’d attended the University of Kentucky like their mother. Jason had gone to the University of Louisville like their father had.
Hagan smoothed his mother’s shirt. “It was a big game this weekend, huh?”
Roxana dumped the