“Saturday is community service. He has to go.” Each word made Anya’s voice pitch up higher. Her heavily-mascaraed eyes were wide, and little spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. Nick had known that look for years. She was on the verge of crying. So much for playing it cool. At least Nick wasn’t the cause of it, unlike so often when they’d been married. Either way, time for him to step in.
“Your mom’s right.” Nick pulled a Tupperware out, dumped its contents—cold pasta and sauce—onto a plate, and popped it into the microwave.
“But I’m sick.” Compared to Anya’s voice, Hayden’s was monotone, like every word was an effort.
“Bullshit you’re sick,” Anya hissed. Nick glanced at her, raising one eyebrow in a silent signal that he could handle this.
Hayden didn’t give him a chance, though. “I am sick! I can’t go!” With a deep sigh, he pushed himself up from the table and shuffled out of the kitchen without another word. The heavy black tracking bracelet around his ankle was clearly visible against his white sock. Despite his don’t-care attitude, the kid was pretty self-conscious about letting the bracelet show, even at home, and kept it covered in long pants. That he was still in a T-shirt and his red basketball shorts might be a sign that he really was ill.
Or he’s getting more devious.
Nick hated how suspicious he’d become of everything Hayden said.
“I’m not calling the probation officer!” Anya shouted after him, even though Hayden didn’t turn around to acknowledge her. “You call him and explain yourself, or he’ll be on this house so fast it’ll make your head spin!”
Hayden’s bedroom door slammed shut.
The microwave beeped, but Nick didn’t bother to pull the plate out, his appetite gone.
“I’ll call,” he said.
Anya whirled on him like he might be a new target. She wore sparkling silver earrings that jingled like a warning bell. “No, you won’t. It’s his responsibility. We agreed on that.”
“I’m not doing it for him.” Hayden wouldn’t call, and if Nick didn’t do it, there would be an angry PO pounding on their front door before lunchtime. That visit wouldn’t be pleasant or short, and Nick needed to sleep.
“Can you talk to him? Get him to go? It’s not even that bad today. They’re helping direct traffic around the farmer’s market.”
Of course they were.
“He’s only a little late. He could still make it. Please?” Anya grabbed her keys from the table. The market wasn’t the only thing open early on Saturdays. The salon she worked at would be open at nine, and she liked to stop for a coffee at the diner on her way in, mostly so she could share her latest tale of woe to whoever was there.
“I’ll try.” A pointless effort—nothing helped when Hayden got that sullen look in his eyes—but seeing Anya so upset hurt, so he’d give it a shot. “Go to work. We’ll be okay.”
She shrugged her purse onto one shoulder. “You’re the best. Are you working tonight?” Nick shook his head. “Maybe we could do something, then. The three of us. Watch a movie. Like a family.”
Like a family.She smiled sadly at him. The girl he’d known, the one he’d loved and married and then lost, was still in there. Her hair was darker than it had been in high school, dyed black that glowed red in sunlight. It hid the grays Nick wasn’t supposed to know were there, but no amount of makeup or hair dye could hide the tension she carried on her petite frame all the time now. She didn’t like the yelling matches with Hayden any more than he did. Normally, she would talk tough about loss of privileges and consequences, but holding fast was hard when all she really wanted was her son back.
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.” It sounded like a pipe dream.
Anya turned to the front door and froze. “Where’s my car?”
Nick winced. “Oh. About that.”
“Babe. Where is my car?”
Normally, he’d have scowled at the pet name, even though she’d been using it for twenty years. This morning, though, as the acid dripped from her words, Nick dipped his head. He had ten inches of height on her and would never make himself appear small enough to escape her wrath, but he could damn well try.
“There was a problem this morning, after my shift.”
“What kind of problem?” She wore her favorite lipstick, a peachy-pink she’d told him once was called Shrimply Devine, and her mouth pursed into a thin line, prepared to pass judgment on whatever he said next.
“It got towed.”
“What?” The shriek didn’t reach quite the same level it had before, but close.
“It was an honest mistake!” Nick held his hands out, palms up. “I parked in the municipal lot. I parked there all winter. But today was the first morning of the farmer’s market and—”
“You got my car towed! Do you know how expensive that’s going to be?”
