He hops out of his truck, hair messy, probably from his shiftat the firehouse, wearing his Bridger Falls fire jacket that makes women in this town swoon. Not me. I’m not swooning. Nope. Zero swoon. You don’t swoon over your best friend. Best friends definitely don’t swoon over each other.
“What the hell happened?” he asks the second he sees Owen’s face. His body tenses like he’s ready to take on the entire world for us.
I stand and shake my head. “I’ll fill you in later. It’s cold out here and we’re heading inside to eat. Want to join us?”
Ollie’s eyes flick to the screen door. There’s an envelope wedged into it with FORECLOSURE on the front in bright red letters, and my stomach drops. Sully wasn’t joking, even though I wish he was.
I stuff the notice into my pocket, but Ollie’s brows go tight. I shake my head once, begging him not to bring it up in front of Owen. Owen should never have to concern himself with bills and adult problems. His problems should be which skin he’s trying to get in Fortnite, or whether he has basketball practice, and what flavor of Gatorade he’s getting at his next practice. That’s what I want Owen to have to worry about. The everyday childhood things that I didn’t get to enjoy. I’m making damn sure he has what I never had.
“I have bags in the truck,” he tells Owen gently. “Want to grab them for me?”
Owen brightens immediately and runs to the truck. He knows that means there are groceries, and it’s usually junk food I don’t buy. My groceries are ingredients for hearty meals these days. And usually Crock Pot meals he hates, but it’s food.
I turn to Ollie. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
He shrugs with an easy smile that feels like a warm blanket on a cold day. “It’s purely selfish. You feed me, and I want to keep that happening. That means I’m going to bring groceries,so you keep feeding me. I’m like a stray cat who keeps showing up.”
I hate that it makes my throat tight. He’s saying that to make me feel better and lighten the mood. But I love feeding Owen and Ollie. I wish I had more time to create better meals for them.
“What did Sully do?” he asks quickly, watching for Owen to come in with the bags of food.
I shake my head. “I’ll fill you in later. He’s upset about it.”
“He’s a dick, Poppy,” Owen calls as he digs through the shopping bags.
“Hey.” I laugh softly. “Language. But yeah, he is a dick, buddy.”
“You got my favorite cereal?” Owen beams and does a fist pump. “Yes!”
Ollie winks. “I pay attention. You’re obsessed with two things right now. That cereal and Fortnite.”
Inside, the furnace groans and clicks on, louder than usual. I start to stress and remember I have bigger problems to worry about than the furnace right now.
“You want to play Fortnite after we eat?” Owen asks, excitedly.
“Sure,” Ollie says as his eyes reach mine, and it’s like he’s scanning me for clues to what happened.
“Go wash up,” I tell Owen as I put away the groceries. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
I glance around Mom’s old kitchen. Faded and peeling wallpaper, a cabinet door that doesn’t quite shut, the ghost of a woman who deserved more time. And it kills me that we’re going to lose this place that holds what little memories that we do have of her.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I whisper to myself, feeling emotional at leaving it all behind and unsure of where we’re going to go.
Ollie busies himself unpacking groceries. I move around him to grab bowls, and he puts his hand on my waist as he goes around me. The gesture sends a tingle down my spine.
Get it together, I tell myself.Best friends don’t give each other the tingles.
Dinner is definitely not burgers from The Black Dog, but it’s hot and filling. I pour salt and pepper on it, warm up the biscuits I made yesterday, and set them on the table in our chipped serving bowl.
We sit at our tiny table, missing the fourth chair, with our mismatched bowls and a candle I lit specifically so dinner feels less like poverty and more like ambiance.
‘This is amazing, Poppy. We had back-to-back calls today, and it was so cold out. Good night for soup.” Ollie leans in and takes a bite.
“At least someone appreciates my Crock Pot cooking.” I grin and nudge Owen, who is standing to get his second bowl despite his complaints.
“You ready for basketball tryouts?” I ask him.
“No,” he lies.
