A man stood on my porch, mid-forties, rough around the edges.
His shirt was stained. His jaw was clenched tight. There was a faded tattoo curling up his neck — some kind of skull or maybe a snake — and his eyes were bloodshot, the kind that come from a long night or a longer life.
“Hey.
Are you Charlie?” he asked, stepping forward.
“I am,” I said slowly. “Who are you?”
He looked over at me and sneered.
“So, you’re the idiot who paid for insulin at the pharmacy?”
I felt the air shift, the way it does before a thunderstorm.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Good,” he growled, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Then listen up.
You had no right to do that.”
“Excuse me?” I blinked slowly.
“You paying for stuff for my kid… What, are you trying to get with Tessa now? Are you trying to play daddy to my kid?”
“What?”
Continue reading…
