I’m paralyzed, watching as she swings again, her arms flailing, wild and desperate. Damian doesn’t move, doesn’t tryto stop her, just lets her hit him, lets her fists connect with his soaked shirt, his rain-slicked skin.
He just stands there, letting his own mother attack him. Over and over.
Cody steps forward, his expression pained. “Mom, it’s us. It’s Cody.”
But she’s beyond hearing now, caught in the grip of something none of them know how to fix.
The fear in her eyes is real.
She doesn’t see them as her sons.
She sees them as theenemy.
And none of them know what the hell to do. I don’t think. Imove.
Stepping between them, I lift my hands, not toward her, not close enough to startle her, but just enough to shift her focus. “Oh no,” I say suddenly, a sharp inhale like I’ve just remembered something important. “I can’t believe I forgot his lunch.”
The woman stops mid-swing, her breath hitching.
I blink, turning my face up like I’m talking to the sky, wiping a hand over my soaked forehead. “God, I’m the worst mother.” I shake my head, pressing my fingers to my temples like I’m overwhelmed. “He’s going to besoupset with me.”
She blinks at me, her confusion breaking through the fear, her arms still raised like she’s unsure if she should fight or listen. “Who?”
I let out a heavy sigh, exasperated, shifting my weight just enough to look impatient but not threatening. “My son,” I say, letting a little bit of frustration seep into my tone. “I was supposed to drop off his lunch before noon, and now I’m standing here in the rain like a complete idiot.”
She swipes a trembling hand over her wet hair, blinking against the water running down her face. She’s still breathing hard, but something in her eyes shift.
“I was looking for his teacher,” I explain.
She tilts her head, frowning in concentration. “Oh,” she breathes, her voice soft, distant. “Are you… Jason Tibble’s mother?”
I swallow down the rush of relief clawing its way up my throat. I have no idea who Jason Tibble is, but it doesn’t matter.I do now.
I nod quickly, giving her a rueful smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Her expression changes in an instant. The fear drains from her features, her shoulders relaxing, her whole body going slack like I flipped a switch inside her mind. She smooths her rain-soaked dress, shaking her head with a deep sigh. “That boy,” she mutters, exasperated. “He hasn’t been handing in his homework.”
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head like this is just another typical problem in my day. “Tell me about it. He keeps telling me he did the work, but then somehow it just disappears. I swear, it’s like magic.”
She presses her lips together, eyes narrowing, andthere, there’s the look of a teacher, one who has heard every excuse in the book. “Oh, I know that trick,” she huffs. “You tell him he needs to start showing his work. I’m his teacher, Ms. Cross, and in my class, there are no disappearing assignments.”
I nod quickly, soaking in every word. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure he knows that.”
Another sigh. Another swipe at her hair, slicking it back. Her face softens even more, her breathing evening out.
I chance a glance at Damian.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide with disbelief, rain trailing down his jaw in silver lines. His fingers hang motionless, tense, like his body hasn’t caught up to what his eyes are telling him.
The rain stops as suddenly as it started, the heavy downpour fading into nothing, leaving only the sound of water drippingfrom the bench, pooling in cracks in the pavement. The air hangs thick and damp, scented with wet earth and asphalt.
But Delilah doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still focused on me, her expression settled into that no-nonsense teacher look, as if we really are just two people discussing a difficult student.
I shift my stance, keeping my tone light, like I do this all the time. “Would you mind if we talked more about Jason?” I ask, glancing at the wet bench where she had been sitting. “Maybe somewhere drier?”
She looks down at herself, as if just now realizing how drenched she is, how the fabric clings to her frail frame, the chill setting into her bones. She lets out a small, tired sigh. “Oh, that would be nice,” she says, smoothing a hand down her dress. “I don’t know what I was thinking, just standing out here in the rain.” She laughs, shaking her head, and for a brief moment, I can almost see the woman she used to be, the sharp, strong teacher, the mother of three boys who probably gave her hell growing up.
I glance toward the SUV. “I was about to grab a coffee. Maybe we could talk more about Jason over a cup?”
