My Foolish Heart by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online

336 lay on the bed— great storage, Dad —and against the wall leaned the Ruger rifle, with what looked like a new scope.
    Seb sucked a breath, then pushed open the master bedroom door, half-hoping he wouldn’t find him, a skin-and-bones man, his teeth yellow, his skin bled of color, his hair long and tangled over his face, life shucked from him one drink at a time.
    But there he lay, fully clothed in a pair of greasy jeans and a T-shirt, his mouth open as if surprised that he might find himself in his own bed.
    Seb walked up to him. Nudged his knee. “Dad. Hey.”
    Nothing.
    â€œDad, c’mon. Wake up.” He shook him again, harder, his heart just a little in his throat.
    The man roused. Groaned.
    â€œDad, it’s me, Seb. I’m home.”
    An eye flickered open. Then the other. For a long, suffocating moment, he stared at Seb, those green eyes unfocused or simply climbing out of someplace Seb didn’t want to know about. Seb fought the urge to drop and bury his head on his father’s bony knees and weep. It’s me, Dad. Seb. And . . .
    I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to be more.
    But he pushed his hands into his jean pockets, fisted them.
    Finally his father broke through the fog and blinked at Seb. He wiped his mouth, then reached out his hand, gripping Seb’s wrist. “It’s about time you got here, kid.”
    About time. Yes, maybe.
    â€œDo you need anything?”
    A smirk tweaked his father’s face. He followed it with a harrumph. “How about some breakfast?”
    His father’s grip fell away and he rolled back into slumber. At least the old man had made it home. Hopefully without hurting anyone.
    Seb nodded, slipping into a rhythm, seventeen again, arriving home from practice to find his father passed out on the sofa, the bathroom floor, the bed. He’d fix himself a sandwich and watch the NFL channel until midnight, plotting his future. Back then, he’d planned on playing for the University of Minnesota. If he got lucky, if he did well at the Combine, he’d get picked up by the Packers or even the Bears. He wanted to stay close, in case his mother came home, in case she saw him in the papers.
    Maybe she’d even want season tickets. He’d get her a box seat, of course.
    Seb missed that, perhaps, the most—looking up out of a huddle when he was fifteen, already varsity quarterback, and seeing her, bundled for winter in the stands. Sometimes the only one.
    But even his touchdowns hadn’t kept her home.
    As he reached the door, he heard his father rouse again. Seb stopped and swallowed hard before turning back to face what remained of his family.
    â€œWelcome home, Son.”
    â€œYeah. Thanks, Dad. I’ll get those eggs for you.”

3
    Caleb could fall in love with a town that served fish burgers. Especially by a playful indigo lake that flirted with the laughing children running along the stone-tossed beach.
    The intoxicating smells of grilled hot dogs, fresh kettle corn, and crispy french fries dripping with peanut oil had all conspired to draw Caleb to the annual Fisherman’s Picnic. He’d put on a long-sleeved shirt, then walked down the street, crossed at the light—where glass and other debris still marked last night’s tragedy—and sauntered over to the festivities along the harbor.
    He’d beelined to the Elks Club’s fish stand, where the “Have You Had Your Walleye Today?” sign made him fork over three bucks.
    Walleye, deep-fried, slathered in tartar sauce, on a long hot dog bun. Only in northern Minnesota. Or perhaps, only in Deep Haven.
    Yes, Caleb wanted to fit into this town. Wanted to look like the locals, in their cargo pants, their Gore-Tex jackets, their hiking boots. Wanted to know the kids skateboarding down the center of the blocked-off Main Street—all three blocks of it—and know who to recruit for his offensive line. Wanted the