Another shrug, another longing glance over his shoulder toward the game system, which sounded like it was about to levitate off the floor. “Mom, I gotta go. Snakefish —”
“Tell Snakefish you’re busy!” I snapped, and J.T. jerked away, blinking at me. “Never mind. You know what, if nobody wants dinner, then . . . fine.” Frustrated, tired from the day, I turned and stalked back up the hall.
A minute later, I was grabbing silverware off the little table by the window, yanking open the kitchen drawer, throwing everything in, knives and forks landing in an indistinguishable mix.
When I went back for the plates, J.T. was sliding into a chair, his chin trembling, his eyes two big, blue baseballs. “I think I’m hungry . . . kinda,” he croaked out.
Tears flooded the spaces where anger had been. “Okay, baby,” I whispered, grabbing a handful of silverware and bringing it back to the table, then leaning over J.T. to press a kiss into his hair.
“It looks good,” he whispered, afraid to trouble the waters too much. “I like pancakes. A lot. Even better than doughnuts. A lot better.”
Laughter pushed in over the tears. J.T. and I talked about Zago Wars and science class while we ate pancakes, undercooked hash browns, and perfect beignets. Afterward, we cleaned up and washed the dishes together. The only thing missing was Zoey.
There was a show about sea turtles on one of the cable channels. We watched it together, J.T.’s sharp shoulder blades pressing into me as I rested my chin on his head and strummed his hair. He mentioned that Mr. Chastain had brochures for turtle camp in his classroom. I didn’t say no when he asked if he could go.
“We’ll see. I hope so,” I said instead. I was starting to see a future here . . . if I could get some money together . . . maybe buy some used tools of my own. . . .
The evening was dimming outside when headlights pressed through the windows. I stood, and J.T. fell limp against the sofa. I hadn’t realized he was asleep.
A truck was turning in to the parking pad in front of the cottage when I opened the door. In the glare of the headlights, it was impossible to tell for sure, but it didn’t look like Rowdy’s Jeep. I shielded my eyes as the passenger door opened and Zoey slid out. Arms hugged tight, head tucked forward, she walked toward the house, underdressed for the cool evening air in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt.
“Zoey, where were you?” I squinted toward the vehicle again. Something about it seemed familiar, but in the dark it was hard to tell. “Whose truck is that?”
“I went out w-walking.” Her teeth chattered over the words.
“Walking?” The pickup driver cut the headlights, and the area in front of the house fell into the darkness. “For three hours?”
“I walked down to the p-p-pier.” She stopped beside me, her body folding in on itself, her voice thick with tears.
“That’s miles from here.”
“I wanted to s-see if Rowdy was there . . . with . . . with somebody else. I wanted to check, okay?” A violent shudder shook her body, and her teeth rattled so hard that I winced. It was cool out here, but not that cold.
“Oh, Zoey,” I soothed. It was the kind of stupid thing I would’ve done —go running around town, checking up on some guy who, in the end, would turn out to not be worth the effort. “Zoey . . .” I reached out to lay a hand on her hair. She pulled away, the porch light sliding over fresh red welts dotting her skin. “You’re eaten up with mosquito bites.”
“I’m okay.” She started up the steps, then paused and turned. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Chastain.”
“Sure. No problem.” I recognized the voice, and now I knew why the truck was familiar. It was Paul’s. He turned off the engine and got out as Zoey crossed the porch. “Next time, either don’t go so far or start out earlier. You shouldn’t be out walking by yourself at dark.”
“Okay,” Zoey muttered, then went into the house.
I walked down the porch steps as Paul came up the path.
“Sounds like there’s trouble in paradise,” he said, his tone offering a listening ear. “She didn’t tell me much, but you work around kids awhile, you learn to read between the lines. I found her walking along the side of the highway, about two miles down.”
I sank onto the porch step without asking if he wanted to stay and talk. “I don’t know what she was thinking. She was upset when she came home, but I had no idea she’d . . . do anything like that. Lately, I don’t know what’s in her mind from one minute to the next, and it doesn’t matter what I say to her, it’s the wrong thing. It’s like . . . she’s not even the same person she was a couple months ago.”
“Welcome to the teenage years.” Paul’s comment was light but sympathetic. He took a seat next to me on the step. “They are their own creatures. You have to think of it like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Eventually the real Zoey will defeat the invaders —you just have to keep yourself from killing the host organism while you’re waiting.”
His geeky scientific explanation pulled a miserable smile from me. “But she’s not like that. She’s always been . . . perfect. And to be honest, she hasn’t had the perfect mom. But she’s always kept it together. She’s never done anything like this.” She couldn’t have afforded to, I knew. If she’d let things fall apart, there would have been no one to pick up the pieces. Even before Trammel, I was always shuffling the kids here and there so I could ride in some horse event, make my name in the business, make a living, chase after some guy I thought would love me, love us, fill the gaps in our lives. All things considered, Zoey had done an amazing job of growing up . . . until now.
Paul shoulder-bumped me, a friendly, familiar gesture that felt strangely comforting. “Like I said, body snatchers.”
A breeze swirled across the porch, fanning the crape myrtles and chasing off the mosquitoes. It looked like the storm might blow over again. “I just . . . I worry that this last move . . . maybe it’s too much for her, you know? We didn’t come here under the best of circumstances.” Loose strands of hair teased my lips, and I gathered them with my fingers, holding a ponytail and resting my head against my wrist. I knew I was telling him more than I should. “I’m sorry. You really don’t need to hear all of that. Anyway, thanks for bringing her home.” Letting go of my hair, I shifted toward my feet.
“I don’t mind.” Paul didn’t move, just stayed where he was, his elbows comfortably balanced on his knees. “It’s my grandmother’s domino night at the church. I usually just go fish or whatever until it’s time to pick her up. She can’t drive anymore, but you wheel her up to the table and she can play a mean game of chicken foot or forty-two. It’s cutthroat stuff. If she loses, she’s mad for days, and I’ll hear all about who she suspected of cheating on the draw. I figure it’s good for her. It takes her mind off missing Grandpa.” He chuckled, and the sweetness of that picture slipped over me —Paul driving his grandmother to the church and wheeling her up to the domino table.
I found myself wanting to etch out more scenes, fill in the colors and the shapes of Paul Chastain. “It’s good that you’re there for her. It must help a lot.”
“Well, there’s only so much you can do for someone in that situation.” He paused to rub crusts of dirt off his fingers. “A lot of it, you just have to work through on your own —figure out what life’s going to look like after you lose someone. Find a new normal. It’s hard after you’ve been together a long time.”
“That sounds like experience talking.” I was probing, but I felt the need to understand. When you’re caught up in your own issues, you forget that other people’s lives turn blind corners too, and they figure out how to move past it. Paul seemed so upbeat all the time. How did he manage that?
“My wife died three years ago after a lot of years and a lot of doctors —myeloid leukemia. She’d had it when she was a kid and again in medical school, so we always knew it was a possibility.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” A cold lump traveled through my chest and rested somewhere in my stomach. I threaded my arms around it, trying to soothe the feeling away. “I didn’t mean to bring up something so . . . painful.”