It feels validating having someone comment on the challenges of being a single parent.
“You’re a good neighbor, Delilah.”
A popping sound chimes from her computer, and a faceless image takes over the screen. Her waddle morphs into a gallop as she rushes to her computer.
“I better get that. It’s Phillip,” she says.
I stand. “Sure. I won’t take any more of your time. But if you need anything?—”
She waves me toward the front door. “Tell Will I’m fine and your parents to have a good trip.”
I’m already outside by the time the chiming on her computer stops and her voice, full of life now, says hello.
I send a quick text to Will from her porch.
EVERETT: Visited Delilah. She said to tell you she’s fine. She’s been keeping busy with Facebook Phillip?
I feel inspired when I leave Delilah, writing two more melodies in the studio before it gets dark outside. Still no lyrics yet, but I’m reminding myself that I have to start somewhere, and music has always come easier than words ever have.
My evening plans route me three miles away from my parents’ house.
The homes in downtown Boise border commercial buildings, with the largest high-rise on Eighth and Main being Zions Bank. Summer lives in a little single-story home with blue shutters. I park like everyone else who visits this part of town—on the street.
Cobblestone steps, uneven with the growth of a giant oaktree’s roots, pave the way to the front door. I knock, and Henry answers it.
“Summer’s not here right now.” He starts to shut the door in my face when a hand blocks it, and a woman with dark hair piled atop her head pries it back open. She wipes her hands on an apron and holds one out to me.
“I’m so sorry about that. I’m Julia, Henry’s mom.”
I smile and shake her hand. Despite the drastic difference in hair color, he looks more like her than he ever did Summer.
“Summer is on her way. I was in the middle of making blueberry scones when Henry started begging for a banana, and we were all out. It was this whole thing.” She waves her hands in the air before inviting me in.
“It’s not a problem. I’m in no rush,” I tell her.
Julia’s home is boxy like mine, rooms separated by walls but with low ceilings. I don’t know if it’s the smell of fresh pastries, the lack of difficult memories, or the kind company, but it feels homier somehow. A timer sounds from the kitchen.
“Ope. I’ve got to get that. Please make yourself at home. Henry, scoot back from the TV.”
He wiggles an inch and continues staring at the screen, his head tipped back.
I take a seat on the couch next to him. “I like the hat.”
He gives me a look likeYou should; it’s yours, before watching the guy on the screen stuff his hand in a glass jar with what looks like a giant wasp. I cringe as the insect creeps closer and closer to his outstretched thumb. Chew on my bottom lip when it finally crawls on his skin.
“Careful, it can smell fear.”
I vault to my feet.
Summer folds her arms across her chest, a look of pleasure painted on her face.
“What the hell—o?”
“Hell is a bad word,” Henry says.
Summer’s still smirking as I scratch my jaw.
“You’re right. Sorry,” I apologize as Julia joins us in her living room.
