“This looks good,” I say, drizzling syrup over my pancakes. I sound way more excited about this gooey pile of starch than I really am. My stomach churns with a mix of sadness and nerves, my head still not completely recovered from the day yesterday and staying up all night thinking. Regardless of the hundreds of times I rolled everything around, I’m still not sold on what to do.
I miss him. I miss him so damn much. My heart tells me to go back to him, to stop everything and go straight to the Farm. My brain tells me to take it slow, to think it all through, to remember reality. That I’ll know when I know.
But I don’t know.
Everyone is chattering about the election, their buttons pinned to their chests, stickers declaring they’ve exercised their constitutional right to vote displayed proudly. I wonder how Barrett’s holding up, how he’s doing, but I don’t know whether I should call.
Hux takes a bite of his breakfast “How do you feel today, Mom?”
“Good!” I say as brightly as I can. “What do you want to do today?”
His fork hits the side of the plate and he looks at me. “Do you want the truth?”
“Of course I want the truth.”
“I want to go home.”
I watch the tentativeness in his eyes, the hesitation as he watches my reaction. Forcing a swallow, I take a hasty sip of my water.
“I know you think we need a break or whatever,” Huxley says, “and I know that photographer thing made you nervous, but I really just want to go home.”
“Well . . .”
“Why did we leave, Mom? For real.” He waits for an answer but I’m not sure what to say. “I’m not a baby. I’m almost eleven. I can take it.”
“Hux, it’s complicated.”
“Is it because of Barrett?”
Laughing, I take a bite of my pancake. “I’m not discussing Barrett with you.”
“You’re my mom,” he says thoughtfully. “So you know that I pick you every time. But if Barrett made you mad or messed up, you should give him a second chance.”
“What do you know about second chances, you little squirt?” I laugh.
“I know that I broke the vase you had in the living room with my baseball and you didn’t ban me from bringing them in the house. You gave me another try. And I know when Grandma got mad at Grandpa for forgetting to renew the license plates on her car, she gave him another chance. And I gave you another chance when you forgot to sign me up for summer baseball last year, remember?”
“Those things are different than Barrett, Hux.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But he makes you smile a lot. And he makes me . . . he makes me feel like we aren’t alone and I really like that. And I know that he’s kind of popular or whatever and I know the picture guy was because of Barrett, but who cares, Mom? You tell me not to give in to bullies and here we are, letting the bullies win.”
Tears hit me hard and fast, and I can’t get a napkin fast enough. Hux watches the wetness slip down my face and his little eyes grow wide.
“I mean, if you want it to just be me and you, that’s okay. We don’t really need anyone else. But . . .”
“You like him?”
His smile breaks across his face, his eyes sparkling. “I do. He likes you, I can tell. And I think he likes me too.”
“I think he does too.” I pat my eyes, my heart filling in my chest.
When you know, you know.
“You want to go home today?” I ask.
He nods and grabs his Arrows cap off the back of the chair.
“Well, I guess I should go cast my vote today,” I laugh, picking up my purse.
We exchange a look and then stand and head to the cash register.
Barrett
THE FARM IS NOISY IN the way it only is when my brothers are home. Ford got in late last night but was still asleep earlier when Lincoln, Graham, and I left for the press conference.
There are bags and newspapers and empty water bottles everywhere. It's like the old days before we all grew up and went our separate ways. I usually love this feeling of having everyone I love in one place, except, this time, someone is missing.
Lincoln is in the living room watching the latest sports stories. Graham is up in my office getting an update on the polls today and the reaction from my speech.
I look at the stairs as Ford comes down. He's wearing a pair of grey sweats and no shirt. The fucker looks like Rambo with his chiseled abs and tanned skin.
"Hey," I say, pulling him into a one-armed hug.
He runs his hand across his buzz-cut. "There you are. Fucker didn't even wake me up this morning. I travel the world to show my support and you leave me in bed.”
"I figured a few hours of rest wouldn’t hurt you.”
He walks past me to the coffee pot. "Graham and Lincoln filled me in, both about the press conference and your new girl. But between the two of us, you better watch leaving Lincoln alone with her!" He says that loud enough for Lincoln to hear, and Lincoln responds to him by flying the bird over his shoulder.
Ford pours us both a cup of coffee and drinks his black. I pour some creamer in mine and relax against the cabinet. "Have you heard from her?" he asks.
"No,” I say, filling with dread. “I’ve been calling and texting her. It’s ringing through now, which is a plus, but she’s not answering.”
"She’ll come around,” he grins.