The Debt

  The Debt

  Sara Hubbard

  THE DEBT

  Copyright © 2021 Sara Hubbard

  Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  ISBN eBook: 9781988212357

  ISBN Print: 9781988212364

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All company and product names are trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective holders. Their use does not imply affiliation with or endorsement by them.

  The following novel contains strong language and sexual situations. It is recommended for adult readers.

  Discover other titles by Sara Hubbard at www.sarahubbard.net

  Sign up for Sara’s mailing list to be notified about new releases and to receive bonus content: http://eepurl.com/NDwi5

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Excerpt from Incapable

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Hubbard

  Chapter 1

  Luna: Still in my scrubs and a scuffed-up pair of sneakers that are probably full of disease, I walk to the Fireside Cafe. There’s a chill in the June air, and I zip up my fleece sweater to my chin and shove my hands in my front pockets for warmth.

  Earlier, Mom texted me while I was at work, asking me to meet her for coffee. She said she needed to talk, but she wouldn’t say more. I knew then that the conversation wouldn’t be good, otherwise she’d have just told me over the phone. The likely topic of conversation? My father.

  Sigh. My father is an incredibly imperfect man. It hasn’t stopped me from loving him all of my twenty-six years of life, but it has certainly put a strain on our relationship. In fact, our issues have intensified so much that I haven’t talked to him in months.

  I see Mom through the large windows at the front of the cafe. She has her phone in her hand and is staring intently at whatever is on the display. I knock on the window and wave to her. She raises her head and smiles, but it’s forced.

  I weave through the mismatched tables and chairs in the crowded cafe. There is no order to their setup. Some tables are far apart while others are too close together. I reach Mom, who sits near the corner, and she stands to greet me. She lays a tender kiss on my cheek and hugs me tight. Though we live rather close, we don’t see each other as much as we’d like. I know that’s my fault because of the incredible amount of overtime I’ve recently been working.

  Mom and I sit down across from each other. The conversations around us are plentiful and loud. The couple to our right is quietly fighting about the guy’s wandering eyes. When the girl’s head is turned, he zeroes in on the blond server’s ass. I try to ignore the noise and focus on Mom, but I still hear the quiet hum of rock music in the background coming from the speaker above us.

  “It’s good to see you,” Mom says. “You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep? You do too much. I’m sure you have vacation time you could use. Have you thought about taking some? Even just a few days. You don’t have to hop on a plane. You could go somewhere local. Maybe get out of the city to a cabin and just enjoy the fresh air.”

  I raise my eyebrows, processing her rapid-fire statements and questions. “Mom, I’m fine.”

  She frowns at me.

  “Really. I am.”

  She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe me one bit. It’s sort of true. I really am fine, although I could probably use a little more sleep.

  “How was work?” she asks.

  “Good.” I hang my purse on the back of the chair and turn back to face her.

  “You always say that.”

  “My shifts are always good. You know I love my job.”

  “Of course.” There’s that weak smile again.

  “So, what’s up?”

  She stares at me, but then her gaze dips to her folded hands on the wooden tabletop.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Dad?”

  She sighs. “I haven’t heard from him in nearly a week.”

  I roll my eyes. “He’ll turn up. He always does.”

  “No, Luna. It’s different this time.”

  I shake my head. That’s the problem. It’s never different even though each time he messes up, he has some reason to explain why he’s done what he’s done and why he needs to be forgiven. He’s been this way for years. As a kid, I watched my father act out, get arrested, or come home wasted or beaten up. I didn’t see his behavior for what it was. Now I’m older, and especially because I’m a nurse, I see things I never would have. I see the why behind his behavior. He’s an addict. It saddens me, but it also makes me angry. Because no matter how much I’ve reached out to him over the years, he never fully commits to getting better.

  Mom and Dad aren’t together right now. They separated just before I graduated from high school when Mom finally decided she’d had enough. I think she thought leaving him would force him to change, but it didn’t happen. You can’t make someone change if they don’t want to.

  “Luna, I’m serious,” Mom says. “He’s been sober for weeks now. Completely dry. He’s changed. I swear he has.”

  I sigh.

  “Don’t give me that look. I know what I must sound like, but it’s true. He calls and texts me every single day now. He was supposed to come by six days ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  My mother is the eternal optimist when it comes to my father. I suppose that’s because she loves him still, and she holds out hope that he’ll one day transform back into the man she married. I’m a realist. Even if he stays sober, he’ll never be the same man she married or fell hard for. Too much has happened between then and now.

  “Maybe he fell off the wagon,” I say softly. “Maybe he’s embarrassed, and he doesn’t want to tell you.”

  She nods, but I see disbelief in her eyes. And also…pain. Like a sharp knife to the chest, it just about kills me. Without hesitation, I ask, “What do you need?”

  She fidgets with her hands. “Can you call him? Just to see if he responds? If he fell off the wagon, he might be more likely to answer your calls.”

  “Why would you think that? We haven’t spoken in ages.”

  “Because you’re not married to him.”

  After a short debate in my head, I frown and dig out my phone. I don’t belong in their relationship, and too many times I’ve been put in the middle of it. Her hating him, him lashing out at her, her kicking him out, him begging me to get her to give him another chance. I’m so tired of it all. But she’s been through so much, and if I can make her life a little easier or make her worry a little less, I have to do it. Even if I know it won’t help her—not really. I keep the text short and sweet.

  Hey, I text and then set my phone down on the tab
le. “There. If he wants to respond, he—”

  My phone beeps and vibrates as a text message pops up. My mother hangs her head. I can’t tell if it’s from relief or disappointment, or perhaps a mixture of both. Either way it doesn’t feel good to be right.

  Can we talk? In person? he texts.

  I pick my phone back up and hold it steady in my hands. Showing her the text will hurt her, but she needs to see it. Slowly, I turn my phone around. I watch her face fall as she absorbs it. Lines of worry decorate her forehead and the corners of her blue eyes. She normally looks so young, but her worry ages her. She’s such a beautiful woman—inside and out. I wished I looked more like her. I’m not sure I inherited anything other than her striking eyes. I was always too pale, too skinny, the girl with the gap between her front teeth. I know why my dad loves her. Not just because of her beauty, but because of the way she loves him back. Unconditionally and everlasting. Even separated, she gives him everything even when she has nothing left to give. I both love and hate the ways she loves. And I hope I never, ever feel that way about anyone.

  “Are you going to see him?” she asks me.

  “I don’t want to.”

  She nods, looking down at her hands. “But will you?”

  A brick drops in my gut. “You know I’d do anything for you,” I say softly. “But please don’t ask me to do this.”

  She nods, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She bats it away and takes a long drink of the steamy tea that already sits on the table in front of her. I can’t say no to her. I just can’t. I wring a hand around the back of my neck, already knowing my answer before I have the chance to debate it.

  “I know it’s not fair to ask you,” she adds. “I know this. But I’m so worried, and I just need to know if he’s okay. Don’t you want to know if he’s okay, too?”

  I do, but I know continuing along with him in this cycle of destructive behavior is doing none of us any good. “If I do this for you, I need to know it’s the last time. Unless he gets help, I’m done with him. I have to be.”

  A smile builds on her lips. “This is the last time,” she says. “I promise.”

  I nod, but I don’t believe her. For as long as my father draws breath, there will always be another time, but I keep my chin up and smile back at her. “Okay.” Head down, I excuse myself to go and get a coffee. I need one now, more than I did before. Strong and black.

  We stay at the cafe for another hour or so, even after our conversation dies. She sits across from me worrying about Dad, and I sit across from her, worrying about her. When she announces she has to go, I remain a little while longer until she’s passed by the window beside me, and I know she’s not coming back. Then I sit and stare at my phone, shaking my head.

  I start to tap out a message, feeling sick the second my fingers hit the buttons. I’m on my way home.

  Where are you now? he asks.

  Fireside, I tap out.

  My phone rings a few seconds after I press send. Dad’s name is on the display. I’m not ready to hear his voice and pretend we’re okay when we’re not, but I answer anyway—for mom. “Hello.”

  “Sure is good to hear your voice, kid.”

  I say nothing. I can’t even pretend to feel the same.

  “I was surprised to hear from you,” he adds.

  “I was surprised to reach out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Mom’s worried about you. You could at least call her and tell her you’re okay. It’s one thing to take off and do God knows what, but don’t leave her in the dark. It’s not fair. After all you’ve put her through.” Put us through.

  “I’m in trouble,” he says quickly.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re always in trouble.”

  “No, kid. It’s bad this time. Real bad.”

  I frown at the phone and shake my head, regretting calling him. “Dad, you have to stop. You can’t keep doing this. You need to go to rehab and stay there until you’re better.”

  “That’s the least of my problems.”

  “I’m not going to do this with you. Call Mom.”

  “Don’t hang up!” he yells. “Luna, I need your help. This one last time. I swear I won’t ask for anything from you again. Just help me now. Please. It’s life or death.”

  One last time. From her. From him. This has to end.

  “I need a few things,” he says. “Some clothes…maybe some money…and I need to get out of town. Can you go to my place and grab me some clothes and my wallet? I can’t be seen there right now.”

  I’m about to say no, but I stop myself. I don’t know why. Is it the fear in his voice? The shakiness? The desperation? Sigh. I must be insane. I should hang up the phone and tell him never to call me again. But what if he’s telling the truth? I won’t ever forgive myself, and my mother won’t forgive me.

  “Fine,” I say quietly.

  “Can you spot me some money?”

  “No.” He’ll only use it for drugs.

  “I don’t want to ask your mother.”

  I squeeze the phone a little harder. He knows how to push my buttons. I guess he’s had tons of practice over the years. He knows I’ll give it to him before I let my mother. “How much?”

  “A few grand. At least.”

  I suck back air. A few grand? With student loans and bills and the money I’ve given him to bail him out in the past, I’m only just starting to get on my feet, and my savings are still small. There’s a house I’ve been saving for, one right outside of the city. It’s in need of repair, but it’s positively perfect. The home no one seems to want but me, if I could only get enough money together for the deposit.

  “If I do this, I need your word, you’ll leave mom alone. You can’t keep doing this to her…or to me. I swear to God, I will not help you again. Not even for Mom.”

  The phone is filled with static. Though it takes a few seconds, he finally says, “I promise. Get the stuff. Meet me at the bus station on Fifth. I’ll be outta your life then, kid. For better or for worse.”

  He thinks I want this? I suppose it’s what I said I wanted, but it’s not. Not really. I breathe in and slowly let it out. I want my dad back. The dad I remember from when I was young, who was involved and played soccer with me and went to all my games. Who beamed when my team won or scored goals and who read me stories at night and tucked me in. The memories don’t seem real anymore because they’re so long ago. They’re like a dream, distant and kind of foggy.

  * * *

  I take the money out of my savings account at a bank machine not far from the cafe. I shove it deep in my purse and wear my bag across my body, clutching the bottom of it for fear someone might steal it, and then I hail a cab. Taking the money to the neighborhood my dad lives in isn’t smart. It’s downright stupid. Dad told me he left a key in a plant pot by the shed of his rental, but I don’t need a key because the door is ajar when I get there.

  The frame of the door is splintered near the lock, and there is a dent in the door. I pull out my phone to call the cops, but I hesitate. I have no idea what my father is into, but I worry that whatever it is might make things worse. Frowning, I put it back in my pocket, stare at the door, and debate going inside. Whoever broke in could still be inside, but my father could be, too. Hurt or worse. I wait a moment, strain to listen, and hear absolutely nothing except for the sound of a man and woman fighting next door.

  I pull out a can of bear spray from my bag and gently push the door open with my fingers. “Hello?”

  No one answers.

  I’m holding my breath, and when I realize it, I let it out slowly. “Dad?”

  I tiptoe inside. The furniture is overturned, and drawers are pulled out from the kitchen cabinets. The floor is littered with trash and paper. Some lamps in the living room are smashed. I clutch the bear spray tight to my chest, waiting for someone to spring out at me.

  In the bedroom, the mattress is turned over and the bottom of it has been sliced multiple times with a kni
fe. My dread grows. I snatch an open duffel bag near the broken closet door and grab what I can: some underwear, a few shirts, some pants and socks. I work quickly, afraid that someone might come back. There is a smell to dad’s place that I know doesn’t come from the people who broke in. Stale air. Damp. Mold. Old vomit decorates the wall that has dried to a crust. I suck in my lips then let them part as I focus on breathing through my mouth and not my nose. It nearly breaks me to know my dad is living here like this.

  I can’t stay here and look at this place anymore. I start for the door and then break into a sprint until I reach the curb of the road outside his house. The cab I asked to wait for me has left. Of course, it has. “Shit!” Heart racing, I look up and down the street. It’ll take at least twenty minutes for another cab to come out here, and I don’t want to linger in this neighborhood any longer than I have to. But I don’t have a choice, because there is no way I’m walking home. I pull out my phone and call another cab. Then, I wait.

  Chewing on my nails, I am acutely aware of everything happening around me. The man across the street stumbling with a bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand…the man walking the big, angry dog wearing a muzzle, the rats scurrying around by the shed near the property line… There’s a stench of trash from the metal garbage bins. My heart beats so fast, it’s like there’s a bass booming in my ears.

  I see a cab approaching after what feels like forever, and I release a sigh, but then the cab drives right past me. I jog after it, waving my hands and calling out. It doesn’t listen. Instead, a black SUV rolls up beside me and slows to a stop. I take a step backward, and then another. A door opens, and two large men in black get out and fix their gazes on me.