Page 9 of Licks

I barely knew August Cruz existed.

Chewing my cheek raw, I drove to my mother’s as I’d planned. Seeing August wouldn’t derail my day, my week, my life. Definitely not. Nothing had changed, including how I’d torn out his heart. If the songs on his first album were any indication, he probably owned a Gwen voodoo doll he disemboweled daily. The titles sure were cheery:

“The Destroyer.”

“Love is Hate.”

“Dressed in Lies.”

“I Don’t Need You.”

“Torching History.”

My personal favorite: “Girl with the Black Heart.”

Those stabby lyrics had punctured my heart on repeat. They affected me to this day. God, I was pathetic, unable to let that idiotic night go.

I parked and marched toward my mother’s home, but couldn’t keep from glancing at the neighbor’s bungalow. That particular habit was as grating as my workout playlist filled with August’s songs. His family no longer lived there, but I always paused next to the lemon-yellow house. The current owners didn’t tend their lawn, dandelions ruling most of the grass. August wasn’t there to tame it. To tame me. To sneak into my room and sing me to sleep.

If I didn’t stop obsessing, I’d have to lobotomize myself.

I forced myself inside and exhaled. Silence. Blessed, blessed, silence. It enveloped me, calmed the uglies nicking at my dark places. A normal woman would be bereft in here, sad to see the quilt draped over the reclining chair that hadn’t reclined in months, the unused cherry dining table, the lack of pictures on the taupe walls. But my tear ducts were as empty as the vacant bungalow.

And empty was A-okay.

I mentally stuffed thoughts of August into a dynamite stick, blew it to smithereens, then stomped up my mother’s stairs.

Boxes lined the hallway, most rooms bare but for the larger items to be appraised. All was neatly sorted, tagged, stacked. Forty-five years of Mary Hamilton eating Raisin Bran, working as a receptionist, watching Murder She Wrote reruns, while either ignoring me or criticizing my clothes or grades or music, all tucked inside brown cardboard.

Life reduced to bundled boxes.

It was a reminder living was more important than collecting. The organization of it had fed my recent restlessness.

Her bedroom was a different story.

Where the office, bathroom, and guest room were stripped bare and catalogued, these beige walls barely contained a tsunami of disorder. I’d upturned every dresser drawer, had flipped her mattress. I’d searched her books for hidden compartments, had even cut away sections of her taupe rug, sure she’d hidden some piece of her past before she’d died.

A memento. A diary. Any clue to who my father was.

No such luck.

But if I lost my adoption agency gig, I could photograph the wreckage and place a Craigslist ad: Goon for Hire.

My exhaustive search had been fruitless. I’d all but given up. Today was supposed to be about stemming this damage, packing it away, cleaning up. But I’d promised myself I’d find my father this year. Before my birthday.

Before tomorrow.

I stared blankly ahead until a vague pounding registered. The sound grew in decibel and frequency. I was so zoned out, it took a stupid amount of time to realize someone was at my front door. I dodged the upstairs boxes, side-to-side, like I was racing through an obstacle course, hurried down the stairs, and yanked open the door.

“There’s something going on with you, and I’m not leaving until you tell me what.” Rachel, with her freckled skin, big brown eyes, and J.Crew ensemble, attempted severity by crossing her arms. Bambi would have better luck moonlighting as Godzilla.

I matched her wide stance. “Look at you, being all bossy.”

“I’m going for no-nonsense.”

“Try harder next time.”

Her attention dragged to the house next door. She studied it as though it might instantaneously combust. Exactly how I felt. I wasn’t sure if Rachel’s bad cop routine was hurting or helping. “Come on in, Sherlock.”