Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
He glares at me.
“Or use English,” I say. “It’s up to you.”
“Sometimes I really don’t like you,” he says.
“Yeah, well, at least you said it in English.”
He rolls his eyes and refuses to look at me.
Carter grabs my arm and rests his head against my bicep. “I had a good day, Mom. I made a free throw during gym class. Everybody clapped.”
“That’s great, Carter.”
“And I made the prettiest flower during art. I know Mrs. Templesman thought so. I could see it on her face.” He tugs on me until I look down at him. “You know that face you make when you tell someone their baby is cute, but you really don’t mean it?”
I struggle not to laugh.
“The teacher made that face when she looked at everyone’s flower but mine.” He beams. “I’ll bring it home to you once she takes it off the wall in the hallway.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Can I get some beef jerky?” Dylan asks, holding up a box.
“Sure.”
He drops it into the cart unceremoniously.
The week has been a bust. The rain kept me from doing any of my outside projects, and my frustration with Jay Stetson kept me from doing many on the inside. Every time I grabbed a hammer, I had to hold myself back from throwing it across the yard and into his window while screaming, “Get your shit together, asshole.” By Wednesday, I was more frustrated than angry. And yesterday I was more perplexed than frustrated. It’s a journey, I’ve learned, when dealing with my neighbor.
He’s handsome. He’s fun, when he lets his guard down. He’s surprisingly good with the boys.
He has a voice that makes me wobble and a touch that melts me.
And that’s why I won’t deal with him again.
I stop the cart and pull a bag of popcorn off a shelf. “This might be fun for Cricket’s tonight. It’s the parmesan kind.”
“Can I please stay home alone?” Dylan asks.
“No.”
“Mom.” His nostrils flare. “I’m fourteen. I’m not a little kid.”
“I know, Dylan. And I know I have to let loose of you a little bit. But we just got to town and—”
“And you refuse to let me stay home with Cricket living down the street. You realize you’re making me go to a babysitter with my seven-year-old brother, right?”
I sigh. “Kyle will be there.”
“He lives there, Mother.”
I ignore the stare of an older woman as she passes and stay focused on my child.
“Can we not do this here?” I ask.
“Sure. Let’s not ever do it. That’s what you want, anyway.”
I turn my back to Carter and glare at my oldest son. As I’m about to speak, Scottie’s words come back to me.
“I remember thinking that if she could smile again, so could I. We didn’t realize it then, but she helped us heal by healing herself.”
“The reason you can’t stay home tonight is because I’ll worry about you,” I say calmly. “I don’t feel comfortable yet, being out of town while you’re alone after dark. But,” I say before he can cut me off, “I will start giving you a bit more freedom if you keep going to school and being good with Carter and being nice to me. It’s about respect, Dylan. Trust is earned. Show me some respect and I can trust you with a little more.”
He sobers a little. “Or you could just stay home.”
Is that what this is about? Is he pushing me away because he wants me home? Or is he just upset to see me make plans for the first time since Christopher’s passing?
“Look, I need to do this, Dylan. This is hard for me too. But it’s time we stop being scared and sad and move on with our lives. We don’t have to do it all at once, but we need to take steps in that direction.”
“Do you think that’s what Dad would’ve wanted?”
My sweet boy. I grab his hand. “I know it’s what Dad would’ve wanted.”
He pulls his hand back and looks away. I sniffle as he joins Carter at the front of the cart.
“Is that you, Gabrielle?” An older man in a golfer’s hat stops beside me. “By golly, it is you. How are you, sweetheart?”
It’s the way he says sweetheart that clues me in. I laugh. “Billy Madrid, how are you?”
“Still kicking,” he says, pulling me into a quick hug. “I heard you were back in town. The Alden Social Club was talking about it last night.”
“About what, exactly?”
I hold my breath while he explains, hoping there’s no mention of a towel.
“Just that Juanita Miller saw you dropping your kids off at school the other day,” he says. “We were going to send you a card and invite you to a meeting. But since I’m here, I’ll just invite you personally.”
“The old Alden Social Club. What are you all up to nowadays?”