Southern Storms (Compass 1)

We had our past. We had our story.

I just wondered why the hell she’d never written me back.

“How are you handling everything?” Amanda asked, snapping me out of my thoughts about a woman who wasn’t her. I felt guilty about it, too. In the past week, I’d thought about Kennedy a million times more than Amanda even though our breakup was pretty recent.

“I’m okay,” I dryly replied. “Have a good night.”

“Jax, wait.” She reached out and grabbed my forearm, and I didn’t want to deal with her tonight. Hell, I didn’t want to deal with anything. “You don’t have to put on a strong act about your father. I know he’s the devil, but it’s okay if you’re hurting. You can talk to me if you need to.”

“Nothing to talk about. I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

I swallowed hard and looked down. “Amanda?”

“Yes?”

“Let me go.” I meant both my arm and me.

She dropped it. “Fine. Be stubborn. I don’t know why you live in this world where you think you have to struggle all on your own. Even if you don’t talk to me, I hope you talk to someone.”

“That’s what therapy’s for,” I muttered.

If only I’d been going.

I pulled out the novel from my jacket, hoping Dad wasn’t too lucid when I got to him. How fucked up was that? I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in that my father’s memory was so far gone he wouldn’t remember me.

I walked into his room where he was sitting in a wheelchair, facing the window. Nightfall had already come, so he couldn’t have been looking at anything too exciting. I cleared my throat and walked over to him, not sure what I was going to get. He peered up at me with his blue eyes that matched the sea, and he blinked. The right side of his body was paralyzed, and his mouth hung limp as he gazed my way. The blank stare he gave me made it clear he didn’t recognize me.

I cleared my throat. “Hey, Mr. Kilter. I wanted to stop by to see if you’d like me to read you some chapters from this novel.”

He slightly nodded, and I wheeled him around to face me before I sat down in the chair in front of him. He looked so broken down, and every now and again, I’d have to wipe his face. It was tough seeing him that way, knowing his outer appearance was nothing compared to what was going on inside his body.

Nobody ever wants to watch their parent’s body shut down as years go by. It felt as if it was life’s curse—watching those who brought you into the world fall apart, a simple reminder that life is much shorter than any of us imagine.

As I read him the chapters, he stared forward. He wasn’t looking at me, exactly, but almost as if he was looking through me. Halfway through my third chapter, I noticed his lips move.

“Go-oo-od,” he mumbled, making me raise an eyebrow. Ironic how he mumbled after years of trying to beat the mumbles out of me. Life was a damn joke that way.

“Good?” I asked.

He nodded, barely moving.

My cold heart tried to beat for the poor man.

Then I noticed a small puddle of liquid forming on the floor beneath him. I rose to my feet, realizing he’d wet his pants. I hurried to get someone to assist him. Two nurses came in to help get him cleaned up and into the bed while I held the book tight in my grip.

After he was put to bed, he fell asleep quickly, and I headed out, walking straight past Amanda, who I could feel was staring my way.

I slid into my truck and tossed the book into the passenger seat. After I turned the key in the ignition, I paused. My hands rested on the steering wheel, gripping the leather until my knuckles turned white. I stayed there for a few moments, taking in all the silence that came crashing into me.

I pulled out my phone and called my brother. The conversation went as expected. “He’s not your responsibility, Jax. You should leave that town and start a new life. You aren’t to blame for Mom’s death.” Wash, rinse, repeat.

As I drove home, I thought about my father, about the man he used to be, the man he’d become. They seemed like two completely different creatures. One terrified me; the other I pitied. No man should be placed in the position where he soils himself and can’t do a damn thing about it.

My heart didn’t reserve pity for the man my father used to be. Fuck that man and the way he’d harmed me both physically and emotionally. Fuck the years in therapy that hardly led to healing. Fuck his hands that had punched me, bruised me, belittled me.