“That doesn’t show loyalty,” I whisper to Griffin.
“So what?” he whispers back. Turning back to the phone, he thanks Alma for her time, and they say their goodbyes. “See? She checks out.”
I fold my arms and grumble, “We’ll see.”
“Oh, yes, we will,” Griffin comments slyly.
“You better not,” I warn him.
Griffin exits our office but turns to remark, “Whatever you say.”
Griffin’s ill-timedsurprise had me feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my skin, so I hopped on my motorcycle and went fora short ride. But instead of heading back to The Wandering Raven, I went home for a brief round with the punching bag.
Our house is located just outside of town. It’s on a street where there are only a few houses, and the space between each house is enough so it doesn’t feel like I’m living on top of my neighbors. It’s the second house on the right. The left side of the street is a field owned by a local farmer.
After Griffin and I tore down the house we grew up in, we bought this one. It’s two stories with two spacious bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms. I don’t mind sharing things with Griffin, but we both need our own space. The first floor is simple in my opinion. It has everything we need. Kitchen, half bathroom, living room, and an attached garage. The second floor has both of our bedrooms and individual bathrooms.
Once I’m showered and ready to head back to the bar, I head into the garage where I parked my bike and put my helmet on. I want to get there before our new employee does.
Griffin would say that I’m hiding. He could shout it from the rooftops, but that doesn’t make it true.
Walking my motorcycle out to the driveway before I start it, I’m caught by surprise when a football hits the side of my helmet.
What the…
I set my bike on the kickstand and remove my helmet, bending down to pick up the football. It doesn’t take me long to find out where it came from. A kid stands on the grass between my house and the next. I can’t tell how old he is, but he stands around four and a half feet tall. His big brown eyes are bulging, and his mouth hangs open.
But it’s the thin line of healed skin running down his cheek that has my attention. I catch myself reaching for the scars on my own face, but I stop myself. A heaviness weighs down on my shoulders as I have difficulty swallowing.
Lifting the football in my hand, I ask, “This yours?”
He doesn’t blink as he bobs his head.
“Here ya go.” Keeping the laces on top, I pull the ball back behind my head. As I step forward with one foot, I send the ball flying forward with just enough force for the ball to reach the kid.
The boy holds his hands out awkwardly, trying to catch the ball. But it falls to the ground next to him. He looks down at it with sagging shoulders.
“What’s your name, Bud?”
He purses his lips as he studies me closely. I know the moment he finds my own scars because his eyes widen again, but it’s brief. “My mom says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
“Your mom is right, but I think we’re neighbors. This is my house.” I use my thumb to point over my shoulder, then point to the first house on the street. “And I’m guessing that one is yours.”
He nods, confirming my conjecture.
“That makes us neighbors. I’m Knox.” I relax my posture to seem less intimidating.
“Noah,” he replies.
“It’s nice to meet you, Noah. Do you know how to throw a football?”
He winces and answers in a weak voice. “No.”
“Maybe your dad or brother could teach you,” I suggest.
“I don’t have a dad or a brother. It’s just me and my mom.” He hangs his head.
Swallowing down the wave of emotion that builds in my throat, words come flying out of my mouth. “I could teach you if you want.”
