“You don’t have to?—”
“Clark, where does your wallet belong?”
I blink at the non sequitur. “What?”
“Where does your wallet belong? Your keys? Your hockey gear?”
“My wallet belongs in my pocket. Keys on the hook by the door. Gear anywhere you can’t smell it.”
“Right and when you can’t find something, what does your mom always say?”
Understanding dawns. “Where does it belong?”
“Exactly. Your mom taught you where things belong, right? How to find them by knowing where they should be.”
When I was a kid, I was always losing stuff. She’d make me retrace my steps, and when that didn’t work, she’d ask where itshouldbe. Eventually, I learned to put things where they belong in the first place. Most of the time.
“So here’s my question. Where do you belong right now?”
The answer comes so easily it scares me.
With you.
But I can’t say that. Can’t cross that line. Instead, I say, “Getting my life together?”
She laughs. “Good answer. But seriously, tomorrow you belong in Omaha. We’ll get your Jeep, renew the registration,and maybe grab lunch somewhere that isn’t a highway diner. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We finish our food and head back out to her car. She lets me drive, which is unusual—April prefers to be behind the wheel in her vehicle; otherwise, she has to readjust the seat and mirrors.
“You sure?” I ask.
“You’ve had a rough night. Driving will make you feel better. Plus, I’m tired. I imagine you are too, but this is the penalty for dragging me out of bed.”
I don’t argue.
As we get back on the highway toward Cobbiton, she curls up in the passenger seat, her head against the cushion, eyes half-closed.
“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time.
“Mmm. You can thank me by remembering to renew your registration next time.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And by letting me sleep in tomorrow. The dogs woke me up at five for breakfast.”
“Done.”
She’s quiet for a minute, and I think she might have fallen asleep. But then she says, “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re home safe.”
A smile—the first in a while, all things considered—plays at the corners of my mouth. “Me too.”
By the time we get back to my apartment, she’s fully asleep. I park, then consider scooping her in my arms and carrying her upstairs. But that’s a threshold I shouldn’t cross. Instead, I gently wake her.
