I tell him about Jaeger's stride this season. About the slow turn we've been working on. About the run in Stephenville last week.
He listens the way he always listens—head tilted slightly, eyes on me, not eating until I'm finished.
Then he asks me about the run. About the dirt at the Stephenville fairgrounds. About my second-barrel turn.
It's the first conversation I've had since earlier this week that hasn't been about the fucking creeper stalking me, and I let myself sit in it.
Halfway through my burger Holt looks at Spur. "How long have you been with my niece, son?"
"A few days, Holt.”
My uncle cracks up. "A few days?"
"Yes."
He raises his brows. "That's news that took its time getting to me."
I interject. "Pops told you last night, didn’t he?"
"Yeah he did. But he left out the good part." Holt looks at me. "How long have you been with him, baby girl?"
"A few days, Uncle Holt."
"Truthfully?"
"In my head? Years."
He looks at me for a long time. "Yeah. I know."
"You knew?"
"Honey, every man in this family knew you’d fall for a bastard in the club, except your father. Deep down he probably knew and he was just hoping he was wrong."
I laugh. The second time today. It feels less strange in my chest now.
Holt looks at Spur. "You treatin’ her right?"
"I'm trying, Holt."
"You'll keep trying."
"Yes, Holt."
"And you understand if you don't, your Prez isn't the only Lyle you'll be answering to."
"I understand."
Uncle Holt nods once and that's it. The conversation is done. He goes back to chowing down on his burger.
Spur's hand finds my thigh under the booth and stays there.
* * *
We drive to the fairgrounds at one.
Uncle Holt's F-250 in front of my Ford because he's driving lead now.
Wells and Tread are in his back seat, and the Abilene chapter has us in a moving box on the highway from the Hampton to the fairgrounds.
