That right there is some old-school love and devotion. “You looking to unload that table, too?” I ask.
“They sure do look pretty together. You think your lady might like it?” He rubs a handkerchief across his brow and stuffs it back in his pocket.
“I think she’d love it.”
He names a price, and I hand him the cash without batting an eye. Jake and I get the bench and matching table loaded in the back of the truck and say our good-byes.
“That was really nice of you, buying that table, too,” Jake says, clicking his belt.
“I think your mom’ll like it, don’t you?”
“She’ll love it.” He shifts in his seat, looking at me and then looking back out the windshield. “Thanks, Miles. This is going to be the best Mother’s Day ever.”
I nod and tousle his hair. My throat clogs, not letting even the simplest response through. That thank-you, this errand, might mean more to me than it does to him. It’s nothing for me to help Jake get his mom something she wants for Mother’s Day but spending time with them like this is huge. Fucking huge.
We stop to pick up a planter and dirt and a tray of poppies I ordered to set in the garden.
Our errands done, I look to Jake and say, “How about we stop at the convenience store and get a drink and a snack?”
His face lights up, and he nods furiously. He’s such a good kid.
“All right then.” I swing into the same convenience store where we first ran into each other. Where Chloe literally fell into my arms. And thank God for that.
I’m not at all surprised when Jake grabs the biggest cup and fills it to the brim. I pay and with a hand to his back guide him out to the truck. We climb in, and as I roll the windows down to let the heat out, a kid in his late teens flies out the doors, a purse grasped in his hand—one that looks a hell of a lot like the one the lady behind us in line had.
Shouts for him to stop and calls for help kick me into motion.
I jump out and lock the doors behind me. “Stay here, Jake. Don’t leave the truck. I’ll be right back.”
I take off after the kid and see him just as he rounds the corner at the next block. Legs pounding, I eat up pavement between us, and it’s not long before the kid tires and slows. I push myself harder, closing the gap.
Sirens wail, the sound getting louder as the police approach. When the kid glances over his shoulder, he stumbles before gaining his footing, but that little stutter-step is all I need. I’m close enough to turn up my speed, wrap him up, and take him to the ground.
In full panic, he tosses the woman’s purse and tries to push me off. I’ve got easily six inches and fifty pounds on the kid. Training kicks in, and by the time the police car pulls up next to us, he’s given up the fight.
Running through the details takes time. It should be completely obvious by the fear on the kid’s face and the way he’s practically shitting his pants that he’s the one who grabbed the purse and ran, but the police have a procedure they have to follow. And then I have to get myself back to Jake. I jog it, impressed with just how far I chased the kid down.
The two police cars parked at the convenience store don’t surprise me in the least as I round the corner. But the cop standing next to my truck, talking to Jake and the woman whose purse was grabbed, kick my pace up a notch.
“There he is,” Jake yells, pointing toward me. “His code name is Superman.” He unlocks his door, triggering the alarm.
I dig my keys from my pocket and hit the button to silence it as quickly as I can.
Jake jumps out and meets me at the front of the truck, beaming with pride.
“You’re the one who took off after him?” the lady asks, stepping forward.
“I am,” I manage while catching my breath. “The officers took your bag to the station with the kid.” I look from her to the officer standing with her.
“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done. It was just such a surprise. That boy came out of nowhere. He was just so fast,” she rambles. “I’d like to thank you properly, but my wallet, my cash?—”
“No, ma’am. Not necessary. I was happy to help and glad that it all turned out okay.”
She lunges forward and surprises me with a quick hug. “Thank you.”
The officer directs her to the police station to start the process of claiming her purse. “I’ll be there shortly to follow up,” he adds before turning to me. “Not every man would abandon his son to chase down a criminal. Could have ended differently if that kid had a gun on him or if people were waiting for him around the corner.” He rests his hands on his utility belt, his stance wide. There’s a definite hint of lecture or maybe judgment in his tone.
“Yes, Officer. It was a calculated risk, but I trust this guy to make good decisions.” I wrap my arm around Jake’s back andgive his shoulder a squeeze, hoping that he doesn’t pick now to correct the cop, saying that I’m not his dad.
