12
Noah knocked on Jilly's back door on Saturday morning the day of Lindsey's party.
It was windy but mild, the sun beating down on his back. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans and was almost comfortable.
He was taking a chance that she and the kids would even be there. He didn't know if Jilly had booked a party room at the bowling alley or a pizza place or something like that.
The boys had finished painting his house two days before. While they'd worked, Lindsey had spent hours sitting on his living room floor, playing with Honey Bear, but the girl hadn't brought up her invitation again.
Jilly must've explained. But it didn't stop guilt from dogging his heels.
Mr. Noah, you're my best friend.
He certainly hadn't done anything deserving of that title.
Didn't Lindsey have any friends at school? Little girls that could get him off the hook?
He knew how cruel kids could be. Lindsey and her siblings had come into the school year late. All the other children in class would've already established friendships from the beginning of the school year. Or even last year, in kindergarten.
Lindsey was different. Like PJ and Casey, she was a foster kid.
Kids were cruel. They whispered. They repeated things they'd overheard their parents say.
It'd happened to him, decades ago.
His dad died.
Worse were the whispers in his own head.
Daddy died. And it was my fault.
Guilt or pity or those voices... Somehow, Noah been driven out of his house today and over here to deliver a wrapped gift to the birthday girl.
If he'd timed it right, he had several hours before the party started. He'd be gone before the other guests arrived.
Jilly answered the door. "Hey. What's up?"
Just the sound of her voice put a weird clutch in his chest. Somehow, he'd fallen into this weird sort of friendship. He hadn't meant for it to happen.
He wanted more.
No, he didn't.
"Did we forget something at your place last night?"
It was a valid question. She and the kids had been over to visit Honey Bear, even though the painting was finished. He'd been surprised—maybe they both had—that Casey and PJ wanted to play with the kitten, too.
The boys might be older, might not claim the fact out loud, but they still had enough child inside them to enjoy the playful pet.
And both evenings they'd spent at his place, they'd forgotten something. One night it was PJ's ball cap. Two days ago, it'd been one of Lindsey's shoes. One. Not both.
He might never understand children.
"No," he said. "And I can't stay for the party. But I wanted to bring this over for Lindsey."
He held up the box. It'd come shipped to him wrapped. Aiden had confirmed the paper was birthday-themed.
He also had a plain old cardboard box under his other arm.
