The Good Green Earth (Colors of Love Book 3)

by V. L. Locey

  “Okay, not going there,” I whispered and sat down in the ugly blue chair next to his bed. I stared at his hand instead of the sunken cheek or the unseeing left eye. “So, Chris says you’re heading over today,” I said to him although his brain had been way past hearing years ago. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, lying here all this time, but we didn’t have much choice, legally and all. I think sometimes that Chris hoped you’d come back. Military tough, rah-rah, all that stuff. I don’t think he really ever accepted the fact that you’d try to kill yourself. He’s a rat dick of a human being. Mom leaving fucked us all up but Chris…yeah, he’s not a good man.”

  The whirr of the air conditioning coming on wasn’t loud enough to drown out the shout of some old man looking for his wife. Was she here or dead? I wanted to puke from the misery that life heaped on us.

  “Guess you know all about us though, so me telling you Chris is a spurt isn’t news. So before you go I just wanted to tell you that I know life sucked for you. It did for us too. Chris and Jacob had your beloved Army to help them cope, and I had hockey, but you had nothing but gin and whiskey and beer. Yep, good friends they are. I was hanging out with them for a while. They’re asshole friends once you get to know them. I just hope that wherever you go it’s nice and there’s no pain anymore. Tell Jacob I miss him.” I reached out to touch his hand, the skin delicate as parchment.

  The door swung open and Chris walked in. He gave me a look then went to stand in the corner. We waited for an hour and then Dad just stopped breathing. It was quiet and peaceful.

  Doctors came in. People talked. Death certificates were filled out, and Dad was covered with a sheet and wheeled out to the morgue I guessed. I was kind of blurry and tired. So utterly tired…

  “He’s being cremated later today,” Chris was saying to me. I bobbed my head. “We’re burying him as soon as possible. Peggy asked you to come to our place for dinner. I declined on your behalf.”

  “That was shitty of you.”

  He ignored me. “If you want to stay for the funeral fine, if not, fine. I’m not hauling you back to Vegas, so you better line up a ride.”

  I stared at the ramrod straight man looking at me as if I were a stranger or a grunt he had to beat into submission for boot camp. I gave him a shove, back into the room that our father had just died in, and I barricaded the door with my body.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” I’d asked that before—a hundred times—but he never had given me a solid reason. Everyone had left, including Dad if you went in for that heavenly spirit souls floating to the Pearly Gates stuff. “This will be the last time we see each other. I’m working on getting rid of the shit in my life that makes me abuse booze before I end up in a bed with a wire frame for a face like Dad. You might as well tell me why you hate me so much now. Get it off your chest and all that.”

  His gaze flitted to me. “Because every time I look at you I see the reason that Mom left.” I searched his eyes for pain or compassion but there was nothing but hatred. I moved from the door, giving him his freedom to leave. He did. And so did I. Out into the fractured dawn with nothing but my phone, my wallet, and a pocket full of sobriety chips that felt like they were crafted from lead instead of aluminum. I wandered along, found the motel and grabbed my bag, pockets weighted down, heart even heavier, trying to work out what to do. The sun was peeking through palm fronds and the air was dry and warm. There was little grass to be seen, even more so when I found myself on a wide stretch of road that went on for miles in both directions. Street lamps, car dealerships, fast food restaurants, and bars.

  Sure, it was only a little past daybreak but my father had just died, and my only sibling had reminded me that I was the cause of my mother leaving thereby throwing my family into a spiral of death, depression, and drunkenness. The Three Ds. Go, Nate. So, among all that, was it any wonder that I took a seat on a mass transit bench in front of a grimy pub called The Oasis and stared at the cold neon lights in the small windows. Several buses pulled up, opened the doors, waited, and then drove off as I flipped chips at the thick door of the tightly closed bar. When I was down to my last chip, my newest, the sun was already searing the back of my neck.

  Someone sat down beside me, a big black guy in shorts and a tank top. I mean big, like defensive end for the last Super Bowl champs big. No hair, thick beard, bottle of root beer in his massive hand.

  “What you got going here, my brother?” he asked, his voice so deep it made your fillings hum.

  I held up my most recent chip and marveled at how pretty it was. We sat in companionable silence, him sipping root beer, me studying my chip until a bus came and went.

  “You missed your bus,” I said then flicked the chip at the seedy door. It hit and rolled back to me, as the others had done, spinning then falling flat on the sidewalk beside my foot.

  “Another will come along. You look like a man who’s standing on a precipice.”

  “My father just died.”

  “You have my condolences. You and him close?”

  “Nope. He’s been braindead for years.” I mimicked putting a gun under my chin and pulling the trigger. Big Man winced then offered me some root beer. I shook my head, pink and black hair hanging into my face. I needed to do something about my roots. “He’s in a better place, yeah?”

  “I like to think so,” he replied, rolling his neck, the vertebrae popping loudly. “You waiting for this dive to open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your sponsor say about that?”

  A horn blared. Someone shouted something angry in Spanish. “Don’t know, haven’t called him. I’m entitled to one beer after my father dies. Right?” I craned my head to look at him. His bald head shined like a newly-buffed floor.

  “For most people, yeah. For people like you and me, no.”

  “How long sober?”

  “Five years. Name’s Ossie.”

  “You don’t sound Australian.”

  He chuckled then lobbed his empty soda bottle into the trash can at his side. The smell of the garbage warming up was beginning to reach my nose.

  “Not Aussie with an A, Ossie with an O, like Osmund.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Nate.” We shook. I stared at all my chips on the sidewalk. “Five years. Fuck, that’s a long time. I can’t go past a few months it seems.”

  “You can, you just need to pick your pale ass up off that bench and haul it to your meeting.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s in Syracuse, New York so…”

  “Come to mine then.” He stood up, folded his tree trunk-sized arms over his barrel of a chest, and waited for me to get to my feet. “Call your sponsor, tell him what’s what, and then come to a meeting with me.” Another bus pulled up. Ossie lifted a thick eyebrow. “Pick up them chips and come to the meeting, Nate. Trust me, my brother, you do not want to go inside that bar.”

  “Yeah, I really kind of do.” The splash of cold hops and barley. The dark hole of forgetfulness. Yep, I was all about that. “Did I mention my dad just died?”

  “Mm-hmm. Did I mention I’m on my way to a meeting?”

  The doors on the bus whooshed open. “I want my boyfriend.”

  “Call him on the bus, then call your sponsor. Let’s go. Dupont is waiting for us.”

  I looked behind me. The bus driver gave me a long, sad look. “My chips…”

  “Get on the bus. I’ll pick them up.”

  “Yeah okay.” I climbed up into the bus, gave the people heading to work a glance and dropped into the first available seat. Ossie appeared a moment later, bent down to talk to Dupont, then fed some money into the farebox. “I’ll pay you back for that.”

  “You calling your man and your sponsor will be payback enough.” He shook his hand, my chips clinking against each other, then he dumped them into my lap. “Put them away. Make your calls. We’ll be at the church in ten minutes.”

  Picking who to call was tough. Bran’s voice would have eased some of the pain of rejection
clawing at me internally, but Barron was the one that Bran had told me to call in moments like this. I turned my phone on, ignored the buzz of missed messages, and dialed Barron’s number.

  Ossie sat beside me, taking up both seats, which left me and my bag plastered to the side of the bus. A guy behind me was snoring loudly. Someone hummed. Women talked. And my sponsor picked up on the second ring with a calm “Hey, Nate, troubles today?” that made my lips pull up into a sickly smile.

  Troubles. Oh yes, quite a few. Where to start.

  “I know this is going to sound like the opening for an Eagles song, but I’m on a bus in Barstow with a man named Ossie heading to a meeting to soothe my troubled mind.”

  Ossie chortled and patted my head, cramming my hat down soundly. Barron seemed less entertained than Ossie, but just as concerned. It was a quick relay of information. Barron was glad that I’d sought out a meeting. I didn’t have the guts to tell him the meeting sort of found me. I promised I would share this story during our next group. I thanked him for his sympathy over my father. I hung up, started dialing Bran, and was then informed that we were at the church.

  That call to Bran came four hours later when I was sitting at the airport waiting for a flight back east. Ossie—or Pastor Ossie as I later discovered—not only was a fellow abuser of alcohol, he was also a minister. His meeting was a lot more prayer-based than ours, which usually just started with the serenity prayer, but it was sound and solid and just what I needed at that time. The other men there helped me past the need to dive into a keg. Then one of them drove me to Las Vegas and gave me a candy bar and his phone number, just in case my sponsor back east was unavailable.

  My flight was two hours away. I had caramel stuck in my teeth and was running on a sugar high so severe they’d be able to see the flames from my crash all the way in Europe—but I was sober. And had a new chip and several new friends.

  When my call to Bran went through I smiled at how hearing his voice made me feel. Warm and serene, kind of like beer only better. Sweeter. The move to New York was going to kill me.

  “Hey, I’ve been trying to call you for hours. Was your phone off or dead?”

  “Off, I had…things out here are…can I condense?”

  “Sure, yes. Let me slip into my office.” I heard him moving around, speaking to Dixie, and then the sound of his breathing as the phone neared his face again. “Okay, we’re private now. Talk to me.”

  I stretched out my legs, using my bag as an ottoman, and I popped open a can of energy drink. Oh yes, the fire would reach the heavens when I hit the earth.

  “Dad’s dead. It was peaceful.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how hard that is.”

  My eyes roamed the people milling about. “Yeah, it’s rank. Chris kind of cleared his cache on me.” Bran mumbled something. “Nope, it’s good. I asked him to. Can you pick me up at the airport around midnight?”

  “You’re coming home? What about the funeral?”

  My lashes drifted down to rest on my cheeks. “Not attending.”

  “Nate…”

  “Nope, it’s how it has to be. And I’m not talking about it now. Will you pick me up?”

  “Yes, of course, but are you sure you don’t want to attend his funeral?”

  “Yep, I’m sure. I just want to go home and sleep beside you. That okay?”

  He sighed. “It’s more than okay. I’ll be at the airport at midnight. I wish you would have let me come along, you sound utterly drained.”

  “It’s been a rough twenty-four hours,” I conceded, the sugar from the drink starting to take effect. My left foot started twitching. “I need to walk around. Maybe grab something that’s not chocolate. I’ll see you in like eight hours, yeah?”

  “Yes, try to sleep on the plane. I’ll be there.”

  I knew he would be. Bran Cavanaugh was the responsible one in this summer romance. Not sure what I was yet, but it wasn’t the drunken one so that was something good. Something I could take pride in. Hats off to Pastor Ossie, long may his root beer flow.

  Chapter Twelve

  In truth, I don’t recall much of the flight home or the ride from the airport to my place. I’d crashed on the plane, snoring so loudly the lady next to me complained. I remember a gentle hug at the terminal from Bran, him asking if I wanted to go to his place or mine, and me mumbling that I wanted mine simply because it was closer. I slept on the drive, coming awake only long enough to stumble into the elevator then into my apartment. My bed had never looked so good. I collapsed across it in just my underwear, hearing Bran ask where I wanted my bag placed before dropping off into sleep void of dreams. Or much movement as I woke up lying in the exact same position that I’d fallen asleep in. Mouth dry and back stiff from cheap airline seats, I rolled to my back gingerly, enjoying the popping of my vertebrae. Yawning widely, I squinted at the sun streaming in the bedroom window.

  My carry-on bag sat on the floor by my dresser, emptied by the looks. Searching for my phone, I padded to the dresser and found it along with all my pocket flotsam stacked neatly by an old picture of me and Jacob. I checked the time, not overly surprised to see that it was nearly noon, and then ran a finger over Jacob’s dusty face.

  “Tell Dad I get it,” I whispered to the smiling man in the crisp uniform who looked so much like me people had thought we were twins.

  “Morning.”

  I looked from Jacob to Bran and gave him a feeble smile. “Hey,” I said, enjoying the way his gaze moved over me.

  “I was about to hold a mirror under your nose,” he teased, leaning against the doorjamb working to appear carefree and oh-so nonchalant. I knew he had a thousand questions burning inside him.

  “It’s been a long, hard couple of days,” I earnestly replied. The man’s faux playfulness fell away instantly then I felt bad. “Thanks for letting me sleep but isn’t today Thursday?”

  He nodded and some of the unease around his magnificent eyes disappeared. “It is. I let Dixie open.” My mouth fell open. I gasped. He snickered and padded over to me, his bare feet silent on the carpet. “I felt that you needed me more today than work did. Was I wrong?”

  I shook my head. He brushed some dirty pink hair from my eye. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

  “Go shower. I have brunch ready. We’ll be eating out on the patio. I’ve freshened things up out there for you.”

  I cocked an eyebrow and thought of stealing a kiss, but I’d not brushed my teeth in forty-eight hours, so I held off and nuzzled my nose into his neck instead. His hands roamed up my bare back, tenderly bumping over the knobs of my spine, holding me but not gripping me close. It was a sweet moment that my battered soul sucked up like a hummingbird drinks nectar.

  “Mm, I like the feel of your breath on my throat.” I panted roughly, making him snort in amusement before stepping back.

  “Go shower. I’ll have everything ready in ten minutes.” He kissed my rough cheek and off he went, looking casual as fuck in blue shorts and a bright yellow tank top with a cheeky sunflower winking at me.

  Ten minutes later, I made my way to the patio, my skin pink from the hot water, my face unshaven. My teeth brushed, and my hair uncombed. I gave no fucks about how I looked today. There was literally zero gallons of caring in my tank. The world should be happy I’d pulled on clean briefs and a scraggly pair of old blue cargo shorts.

  I paused at the sliding door and gaped at the transformation that had taken place on my balcony. Gone was the old table crusted over with gull shit. In its place was a tiny round table with two stools. A big pink and yellow umbrella poked up out of the center of the table. To the right was a pink chaise lounge covered with a yellow throw. Gilbert and Gottfried were on the far end of the railing, bobbing their heads and calling for treats but unwilling to get too close to the umbrella.

  “What do you think?” Bran asked as he came up behind me, plates in hand.

  “Dude, you’re a miracle worker.” I threw the door open and stepped outside. My gaze found a sma
ll yellow pot in the corner filled with bright golden marigolds. I spun to look at him as he placed our food on the table. Two plates piled high with cantaloupe chunks, scrambled eggs, a cup of yogurt, fat wedges of cheese, and two slices of dark seeded rye bread. Coffee and milk were already on the table setting on woven placemats.

  “It’s such a nice space. It seemed a shame to let those two claim it.” He waved a hand at the gulls who took to wing, only to return a moment later and resume begging.

  “I really like it. Thank you.” I pecked him on the cheek then pulled out a stool and sat down. “I’m starving. This looks good, high protein, carbs. Nice.”

  “The perfect start for an athlete in training.”

  How cute was it that he’d gone to all this trouble? Fuck but I did love the man. How would I ever be able to leave him? I prayed that Arn came through with that train pass because I was beginning to doubt that I’d be able to simply walk away.

  The meal was pleasant, not much talking took place due to me shoveling in as much food as my belly would hold. We threw our toast crust to the gulls then Bran tipped the umbrella at a steep angle, and they flew off.

  “My grandmother used to use an umbrella to keep the chickens off her porch,” he informed me then motioned to the chaise lounge. I nodded and rose. He shook out the throw, draped it over the wicker and then sat down, spreading his legs for me. When I was settled, my back to his chest, he wrapped his arms around me, sighed beside my ear, and then waited with incredible patience for me to speak. It took me several minutes to get things somewhat situated inside my head. So much had taken place in such a short amount of time, I felt like I’d been given shock therapy or something. My reactions were slow and dull.