The corner of my mouth lifts. “Says the woman who was late.”
“We got donuts!” She could have sung it and it would have sounded the same. She’s acting as if a donut run is a perfectlyacceptable excuse for not being on time for her child’s education.
She opens the front door of her white sedan and fiddles with something in the front seat as I keep walking toward my Bronco. I need to get out of here.
I climb in, start the ignition, and get a knock on my window. When I look up, she’s holding a lime green box against the glass. I can’t very well drive off with her standing this close.
She knocks again, forcing me to roll it down.
“I have work to do,” I tell her, which is true. If I was a resourceful man, I’d take her up on her offer, let her drive Quinn home, and give myself that much more time in the studio. But that would mean I’d need to spend more time in her presence, and it’s already proved to be nothing but a distraction.
“I know you clearly don’t take handouts… but the sugar might do you some good.” She leans her head in through the window, her hair falling across my chest, and sets the box on my cup holder. A draft of lemon wafts from her silky strands, and I do my best not to let it affect me. It’s one of the many things I seem to have committed to memory about this woman. She smells like a bakery, and now I know why. She frequents them.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything more, just turns and heads for her car. So I peel out of the parking lot before someone else stops me.
I wait until I’m back in my driveway before I let myself look at the box again. It’s my favorite kind of donut—a maple fritter—with her phone number scrawled across the cardboard.
7
EVERETT
“What do you think?”
I swivel the desk chair away from the turntable I’ve been staring at for several hours. Will’s shoulder is tipped against the studio doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Same shaggy hair that curls at the tips, same worn jeans, same comforting smile. The only thing that’s changed about my closest childhood friend is the smattering of dark hair across his face. Even if it’s patchy in places, the beard suits him.
I don’t know how to answer his question. I slipped into some kind of trance the moment I walked in here. There’s a lot I’m still taking in about the space. Like the round wool rug in the center of the room that looks an awful lot like the one that once sat beneath his grandmother’s kitchen table.
“She’s into pawning everything she owns lately.” He rolls his eyes when he catches me looking at it. “I think they’ll take it if you schedule a garbage pick-up.”
With the way his mouth bends down at the corner at the mention of Delilah donating their things, it’s bothering him.
“You want to talk about it?”
His brow arches. Will and I don’t do this sort of thing—talk about our feelings. Maybe it’s my way of apologizing for always keeping everything inside when we were teenagers.
“I think she’s sick,” he blurts.
I stand. A reflex that has him straightening his posture too. I walk toward the couch, and he follows. “I’m sorry, man. Is there anything I can do?”
He shakes his head. “You know her.” Stubborn is what he’s implying. Even if he pressed her on it, she’d tell him,I’m old, and old people are meant to die.
“I just came over to say thanks.”
I stare at him quizzically. “I should be the one thanking you.”
His eyes map the acoustic foam paneling and the gallery wall of records above the sofa we’re sitting on. They trail across an ergonomic desk and high-fidelity speakers. Land on the microphone and guitar. “This project has kept me busy.”
When Will and I graduated high school, he did the opposite of me. He dove headfirst into a five-year college program. Graduated with a Master of Science from the University of Idaho in architecture, started his own company, and grew it to a four-guy crew before I ever signed with my record label. Based on that, I figured he was doing well. I don’t love the forlorn look on his face that tells me he’s not.
“You’re incredibly talented, man. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to do it but you.”
He nudges my shoulder. “It’s the fancy sound equipment. Makes any space look good.”
I chuckle. “Well, they definitely know how to go overboard, that’s for sure.” The two dozen boxes on the back patio I need to break down for recycling day is evidence of that. “But Emma was right all those years ago. You’re good with your hands.”
The tips of his ears pinken at my mention of the comment she made about the front porch swing he built for Delilah when she lost her husband. Or maybe it’s the compliment. The guy’s never been great at accepting flattery from anyone.
“As Rhett Dawson’s oldest friend, do I get to hear his latest hit?”
