The Tuffman children descend upon my house like Cicada bugs on their seventeen-year return; sudden and loud. Wendy and Jeff basically shoved them out of the car as they did a slow drive by, honking their horn as they sped away.
So far, McKenzie has sat on my back porch, sunglasses on, ear buds in, listening to her iPod and ignoring the rest of us. Wendy called me earlier to inform me McKenzie was less than thrilled about coming to stay here. I was surprised to hear this. It’s been a long time since I’ve kept her—before Blake passed away—but she used to love spending the night here. At least the other children seem fine with sleeping over. Mark has been glued to Connor’s side as he works on a truck someone dropped off for a tune-up, and Mary-Anne and J.J. are playing hide and seek in my house. Grayson is sitting at my feet poking invisible buttons in front of him. My insides twist as I watch him.
“Grayson,” I call his name gently, but he doesn’t respond.
“Grayson,” I say louder. Still . . . nothing. Bending down, I put my face level with his. “Grayson,” I sing his name in a goofy voice, and he turns his head, his big brown eyes darting everywhere, but at me. I snap my fingers in front of his face and repeat his name again, with no acknowledgment.
Twisting my mouth, I stand and put my hands on my hips. How could I have missed this? “Umizoomi!” I say, and Grayson stands, his eyes finally meeting mine.
“Umizoomi. Umizoomi,” he repeats before sprinting in my house beelining for my television in the living room. I stare after him for a moment, my heart sinking. The signs are there. I should have noticed sooner, but every time I’m around the Tuffman family it’s chaos, and I missed the giant indicators.
I’m jarred from my thoughts by the screech of the screen door when Connor enters, wiping oil from his large hands on a shop rag. “You okay?” he asks, his eyes narrowed in concern. I have to blink a few times before I manage to turn my head. He’s shirtless. Again. And all my eyes want to do is rove over his body. Geez, I need help. I should not want to stare at him like I’m doing at this moment and every time his shirt is missing.
I take a deep breath and nod yes. I can’t tell Connor my concerns while McKenzie is in such close vicinity. Not that she’d care. Her brother’s problems would seem slight to her in comparison to her own world-shattering issue; no cell phone to talk or text on. “We’ll talk about it later,” I answer.
“Demi!” Connor and I both turn as Mr. Jenson from next door rounds my porch heading for the stoop. His wife follows behind him carrying a metal bucket of tomatoes and cucumbers. Mr. Jenson is the friendliest neighbor I’ve ever had, and Wendy’s children adore him.
“I see my buddies are over for a visit,” Mr. Jenson chuckles as he climbs the stairs slowly, his feeble hand holding the banister while Mrs. Jenson follows, her mouth flat and expression unfriendly. I don’t know why she comes over here with him when she clearly hates it so much, but to keep the good neighbor peace flags flying, I smile and welcome them both into my home. Connor holds the screen door open for them, and as soon as they’re on the porch, they both fail miserably at hiding their scrutinizing gazes as they take in Connor. It’s not hard to see they don’t share my appreciation of the shirtless Connor Stevens.
“This is Connor Stevens,” I say. “Blake’s cousin. Connor, this is Mr. and Mrs. Jenson from across the street.”
“Oh,” Mr. Jenson’s mouth rounds around the word as his brows rise in understanding. “Blake spoke very highly of you.”