“Well, here’s the deal.” Her tone sounds a tad exploratory, as if she’s not quite sure what the deal actually is. “I always knew you weren’t right for Total Trucks.”
“How so?”
“You’re the only boy I’d ever seen beg for a seatbelt when given the chance to drive a dump truck.” Her lips pull into a sweet grin, but her eyelids droop so low, I can barely see her pupils. “I didn’t think it was fair that your mom got sick. I had made up my mind that all the rest of my dreams would come true if I held on to them. I was being stubborn, but I have never been prouder of you. You followed your own path despite the pressure I put on you. You are always my sweet Christian.”
A dam of tears wells in my eyes. My mom used to call me her sweet Christian. I hadn’t heard that in years. The nickname echoes in my heart, melting the barrier I’d built up to keep it from being hurt. An instant release of the pressure I’d felt for years opens my chest, and I'm able to breathe so much deeper. I don’t fight the release, as I would have done in the past. I allow my stress to erase with each new breath, the knots untangling even more. “Thank you.”
Her eyes seal all the way tight. “Your mom would have been so proud of you, too.”
I breathe into that compliment as it hits my gut like a stone. It isn’t something I’d ever let myself consider. I flash my gazeto heaven. Not in the annoying way I usually roll my eyes, but instead I check for signs of Mom. Despite the many years of searching, I’ve never gotten a clear sign. “I hope so,” I murmur while I silently pray it’s loud enough for her to hear.
A pleasant grin sweeps over her lips as her chest rises further now, and settles into deep, restful breaths. I tiptoe to the edge of the bed, drop a kiss on her cheek, and turn to leave.
In the hallway, I catch the end of El’s ponytail sneaking out the back door, and I whisper-holler her way. “Hey, where are you going?” She doesn’t hear me as the door latches behind her.
I approach the door, and my gaze follows her to a truck parked a couple of houses down the street. I don’t recognize it, but that doesn’t surprise me. She climbs into the cab, and two seconds later they are driving down the road. “What are you up to, El?” I ask out loud, knowing full well this has to do with the mystery dude she’s been wallowing about. Maybe they can straighten things out? Maybe that would mean she couldn’t stay in New York? There’s an awful lot of maybes. I haven’t even gotten to the one that’s strongest in the back of my mind. Maybe I should text Portia?
I walk back down the hall to the living room and drop onto the couch. It’s hours past dark, after an exhaustingly long day. This is as good a place as any to sleep, and I stretch my legs out while pulling a throw blanket over me. I unlock my phone, and it flashes 12:01. I smile as I type a text.
Me: Happy New Year.
Flicking my thumb off the edge of my phone, I weigh the decision of whether to send it so late. I told Portia I’d text. She won’t expect something this late. I don’t want to wake her since she has to get up at five to work. But what if she’s awake? What if she went out? We never talked about our plans for the holiday. What if she met some dude on her website, and they’re toastingright now? I tug my fingers through my front spike and wince. I’m making myself go crazy. It’s just a text.
I press send, staring at my phone, holding my breath as it gets marked “Read.” Then, the screen changes to texting dots, and my heart motors rapidly.
Portia: Happy New Year to you, too!
“Phew.” I blew out a breath. Not sure why this is so hard. Oh wait, she is typing more. I suck in a hard breath and wait.
Portia: Did you make it to Massachusetts okay?
Me: Yeah, we got in about an hour ago. Grandma’s resting. El snuck out the backdoor to meet some hick in a truck, and I’m getting ready to go to sleep.
Portia: Was it blue and white?
Squinting as if it can help me see into my memory better, I think back.
Me: Yeah, I think so. Why?
Portia: That’s Tom’s.
Me: Who’s Tom?
I type rapidly now, shooting off a stream of steady texts.
Me: How do you know about Tom?
Me: Do you know where they went?
Portia: They dated, but she suspected he might be married because all their dates were always secret.
Me: Yeah, why was he hiding on the street?
Portia: I mean, your guess is as good as mine.
Me: He better not play her or he’s going to get it.
Portia: Speaking of such things, my dad told me to tell you he knows his way around a hardware store and he’s an expert at disposing of dead bodies.
