I nod. Good enough. “Perfect. Great job. I’m off to bed. You?”
Lindy pinches her lips together, her eyes darting to her phone. “Not yet. Soon.”
My chest tightens, and there’s a thumping in my throat thatwasn’t there fifteen seconds ago. “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, baby sister.”
I pick up my bag and head down the hall where my parents’ and Wyatt’s bedrooms are. Lindy and I share the basement. I just need one little peek?—
“Maggie Pie?”
I spin to see my mother glimpsing at me through the crack of her bedroom door. I slap a hand to my chest. “Oh, hi, Momma. Did I wake you?”
“You’re late.”
I shake my head. “Nah. It was a night game. I’m right on time.” I give her a smile, and the crack of her door widens.
Dad’s soft snores seep through the gap and Mom tiptoes into the hall. “Lindy is still up?” she asks.
I nod and my jaw clenches. “Texting withBrent.” His name comes out like I might be allergic to it. And Mom doesn’t miss it.
“You don’t like him?”
“You do?” I counter.
“He makes her smile. She says he’s lovely. He golfs and gardens and?—”
“And he’s a bartender. Besides, anyone can say anything online,” I whisper, but my words are an accusation. I’ve never actually met the man. Neither has Mom.
“Lindy says he doesn’t drink.” Mom shrugs one shoulder.
She can’t be that naïve though. I know she can’t. I cannot be the only person to remember the hell we went through six years ago, can I?
“Are you serious?”
Her lips flatten in a line, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. “Okay, we don’t know him. That doesn’t automatically mean he’s bad news, Maggie. Have some faith.”
Faith.Mom always has faith. “You’re right,” I say, but I’m not sure I mean it.
Mom cups a hand to my cheek and lifts on her toes just an inch to meet my five-foot-nine frame, then presses a kiss to my cheek. “Love you, Maggie Pie.”
“Love you, Momma.” I set my hand to Wyatt’s doorknob. “I just want to check on him,” I whisper.
She nods, knowing I’ll do it even if she protests, then she slips back into her and Dad’s room.
I turn the knob slowly and intentionally, as if there were a bomb behind this door rather than a sleeping five-year-old boy. Cracking his door just enough for my body to slip through, I walk slowly, carefully, and quietly over to Wyatt’s bed. His spring scavenger hunt page sits on the dresser next to him, wrinkled where he splashed water onto the paper and then it dried.
His chest rises and falls with even breaths, and his thick blond hair skews up and out as if I’ve been sitting here running my fingers through it. Dark, long lashes, just like his mother’s, protrude like pretty Chinese fans.
From hell to heaven.
Lindy put us through hell six years ago, but from the depths of despair came heaven. An angel my sister let me name Wyatt.
Three
My nephew kicksthe ball at his feet, missing the goal, but his foot connects with the ball. It’s a win. “That’s it, Wyatt!” I clap my hands, thankful our first spring soccer practice isn’t too cold for my rowdy group of five-year-olds. Wyatt’s not even in a coat, just a long-sleeved T-shirt. I mean, it’s not nearly as nice as our fall season, but sixty degrees in February is a win.
“Maggie?” Courtney Shue scurries over from the sidelines, a slight whine in her tone. I know that whine. It doesn’t care that I’m in the middle of coaching. Her Ashley is on the field. They’re all on the field. What on earth could she have to complain about?
I keep my eyes on the kids. “Nice, Hannah. Great kick.”
