“Youbotherme.”
The corner of his lip curled up. “There you go. What else?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you choose the topic since you seem to know what we should be talking about.”
“All right then. How about this—we have something in common, Shelby Thatcher.”
“What? I bother you too?”
He let out a low chuckle. “Well, yes, you do, now that you mention it.”
He made it sound likebotheringmight be a good thing. A warm flush crawled up her neck and into her cheeks. Thank God it was dark.
“But that’s not what I was referring to.”
And of course, with that leading statement, he just went quiet. She rolled her eyes. Shifted in her seat, suddenly twitchy.“And...?”
“I was talking about our childhoods. We both grew up without mothers. That’s not exactly common.”
Shelby turned onto his street. Gray’s mother had died in a car accident when he was little, back when his family lived in Tennessee. They’d moved to be near his grandma because his dad was suddenly raising a young boy alone. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Children shouldn’t have to grow up motherless. I guess we do have that in common, even if the circumstances are very different.”
“Because your mom’s still living?”
Maybe or maybe not. “No, because your mom died and my mom chose to leave us.”
“My mom might’ve died in an accident, but she wrecked because she was drunk. So the argument could be made that she had a choice in the matter.”
Oh.The grapevine had been silent on that one. Shelby’s heart twisted. “I didn’t know that.”
“She and my dad were both alcoholics. They met at AA, which is pretty ironic since alcohol ended up wrecking both their lives.”
Alltheir lives. Gray hadn’t exactly gone unscathed. She could hardly believe he’d brought up the topic. He was such a lone wolf. He didn’t chat with friends and he certainly didn’t divulge his deepest secrets to girls he hardly knew.
She slowed the car and turned into his grandma’s drive. The lights were off except for the one on the porch. Behind the house, a bloom of green exploded over the lake despite the rain.
She put the car in Park.
He unbuckled his belt and turned to regard her with his steady gaze. “Why’d your mom leave you guys?”
No one had ever asked her that. Maybe because word had quickly spread around town back then so people already knew. “According to my dad she wanted to be an actress, a big Hollywood star—like that was going to happen. She regretted getting married so young and getting saddled with kids—my words, not Dad’s.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“You remember her then?”
“Vaguely. She used to make pancakes on Saturday mornings. And she had a really pretty voice. She used to sing to me. And she smelled like sunshine and cotton. Sometimes I smell her when I’m doing laundry.” The memories, though old and tarnished, put a knot in her throat. “What about you? Do you remember your mom?”
“Nah.” His hands rested on his thighs. Nice strong hands with squared fingertips. “I was only two when she died. My dad never stopped loving her though. Did you ever hear from your mom?”
“She sent some postcards when we were younger. I kept them on a corkboard in my room and reread them until I had them memorized. They had these scenes from California and some generic drivel on the back about what a great time she was having. Like she was on vacation or something. I kept thinking she’d come home.”
“When did you realize she wouldn’t?”
“I guess when I was about twelve. We hadn’t heard from her in a couple years, and one day I just grabbed every postcard off that boardand chucked them in the garbage. I decided then and there if she wasn’t thinking about me, I wasn’t going to waste time pining after her.”
“Adults can sure make some stupid decisions.”
