Dropped Coffee

Jackson came busting into the room like he owned it.  I dropped my coffee onto the floor, but managed to move my already broken toe out of the way just before my mug shattered on top of it. 

“What-” I managed to stutter with hot black coffee dripping down my legs. Without a word, Jackson pushed by me and headed directly toward the bedroom.  By the time I cleaned up my ruined mug and hot coffee, Jackson was already rushing back by with his suitcase. 

“Jackson! Come on! What are you doing? Where are you going? What -” I stumbled along after my husband and wondered what he was doing. Where he was going. What was going on. 

Instead of answering or even looking my way, Jackson threw his suitcase into the bed of his truck and jumped into the cab.  

“I’ll call you later!” He yelled through the window before he peeled out of the driveway. I stared after him with my mouth wide open and legs still wet with coffee. Jackson’s truck quickly disappeared out of sight. 

I plucked my phone out of my pocket and dialed his number. Before I could hit send, police sirens started wailing. Several cop cars streamed into the front yard, ruining the grass and running over my newly planted Japanese Maple. As they bailed from their cars with their guns drawn and I knew Jackson had finally hurt somebody. Maybe killed somebody. Most likely his father. 


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