She shakes her head, tongue pressed to her cheek. “Why should I give a shit about what a loser like you thinks about my parenting abilities?”
That’s my girl.
With that, Whit spins and walks back to the truck, head high even though I know she’s got to be dangerously close to falling apart.
Alex watches her like he won. “She always likes to make everything dramatic.”
This guy makes a sport of tearing her down and calling it concern for his kid. And to think, all this time I assumed the worst thing about him was his absence. Now I think that’s the best thing he can be. Whit doesn’t deserve this shit. Jonasdefinitelydoesn’t need to grow up with Alex as a role model.
“You really think letting your son hide out while his mom tears apart the whole town looking for him makes you the good guy here?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I didn’t tell him to run away.”
“No.” I step forward, my entire body so tense and stiff, it aches. “But you sure as hell liked that he did. If you gave a shit about Jonas, you would’ve called Whit the minute he showed up. Instead, you used it. Let her panic. Hurting her mattered more than helping your son.”
His smile falters slightly. “Spare me the speech, cowboy.”
Nope. You don’t get the last word with me, bud.
“If that kid”—I thrust my hand in the direction of the idling pickup—“shows up on your doorstep again, you do the right thing and call her immediately. Or you’ll be getting a hell of a lot more than a fucking speech from me.”
Jaw tight, I stride back to the truck, not giving an opportunity for whatever weak comeback he comes up with.
After quickly strapping down Jonas’s bike on the flat deck of my pickup, I throw open the driver door to find Jonas slumped in the middle seat with his eyes closed, Betty awkwardly teetering on his lap, and Whit staring straight ahead. Her eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks a little puffier than usual, but her face is calm now. That quiet, though? That scares the shit out of me.
No more than five minutes into the drive, I’m getting antsy. The truck cab’s hot and tense and reeks like dog breath. Whit has her hands clasped tight in her lap as she stares out the window, Jonas may or may not be asleep—though the intense scowl suggests he’s awake and refusing to engage—and Betty’s stress-panting from trying to keep herself upright on his lap.
I understandwhyeveryone’s so quiet, but it’s unnerving nonetheless. The silence is thick and sticky, like we’re all chewing on something we can’t quite swallow. And a small voice in my brain is screaming at me to fix this for them.
I shift in my seat. “We should get something to eat.”
If there’s one thing my mother’s taught me, it’s that food fixes everything.
“It’s dinnertime.” I tap the lit-up numbers on the dashboard. “Nothing good ever comes out of being mad and hungry at the same time.”
Jonas makes a weird little noise—half scoff, half sigh—under his breath. Whatever that means. And still, neither of them says anything. Though at least Whit’s looking at me, mulling over my suggestions.
Finally, she nods. “There’s a food truck that usually parks over on Oak Street. That’ll be quick and easy.”
Minutes later, the truck drifts off the pavement into the gravel parking lot. Dust billows up from the tires and I pull in next to the only other vehicle in the lot. Presumably itbelongs to the family with four kids who appear to be playing tag around a group of picnic tables haphazardly arranged on a small patch of grass.
Even before we open any doors, the smell of grilled meat infiltrates the cab and makes my stomach growl. This was agreatchoice, even if it means sitting in awkward silence while we eat dinner. I’d still rather that than the alternative of dropping Whit and Jonas off at home and hightailing it to Anette’s to eat alone.
The gravel crunches under my boots, and I sling an arm across my chest to stretch with a loud yawn. The only way Jonas could move any slower is if we tied a boat anchor to his ass, so for a moment, Whit and I are alone and backlit by the evening sun. We stand a hair’s width apart, and I feel the brush of her hand on my thigh, drawing my eyes to meet hers.
“You okay?” I mouth silently.
She pops one shoulder and her lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile, but trying to be.
My hands jam into my pockets for the slow meander toward the bright-red Mexican food truck, and I squint at the handwritten chalkboard menu. The thing looks like they chose to write on it while driving down a pothole-filled road. Letters are crooked, looping together in places I’m not sure they’re supposed to, and the doodles filling every possible empty space aren’t helping my confusion. And then there’s the pressure of Whit and Jonas standing next to me.
I stare.
And stare some more.
Tilt my head to make it look like I’m merely struggling to decide what I want. In a typical restaurant situation, I’ll play menu roulette and point at a random item when the words aren’t coming as quickly as I’d like them to. But that’s not an option with a chalkboard suspended eight feet in the air.
God, I hate this part.The familiar, itchy frustration in myskull. My heart pounds as if I’m twelve years old again and being asked to read something aloud in class.
