17
Tessa couldn’t fail to miss that Dillon was avoiding her. He didn’t come inside yesterday when he dropped off Makayla from school, even though he always stopped in to say hello. He didn’t stop by the house last night after he left the woodshop, either, though she didn’t really expect him to. What she had expected was a response to the texts she’d sent him.
Each one was delivered. Read. And not answered.
She hoped Dillon was just busy but she feared he’d found out about her mother’s ultimatum and made up his mind that she was leaving.
Truth was, she hadn’t planned to lead with the music academy and trust fund blackmail when she finally talked to him. She planned to lead with, I told my mother no, or possibly with I love you, you stubborn man, so sit down and listen to me, depending on how much longer he dodged the conversation.
She sat on the porch and watched the sun come up. Hamlet flopped down beside her with the boneless contentment of a two-hundred-pound dog. She put her hand down without looking and scratched the top of his head.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told him.
He grunted.
“That’s not helpful, Hamlet.”
He grunted again, more definitively.
Yet again, she was being comforted by a pig. At some point she was going to have to think about what that said about the trajectory of her life. But today was going to be full enough without deep self-reflection before breakfast.
Makayla barreled into the kitchen at seven-ten, stuck her head in the refrigerator, and declared, “We’re out of the good milk.”
“We have a nearly full carton.”
“We’re out of whole milk. The kind Dillon drinks.”
“Dillon isn’t the only person who drinks whole milk.”
Makayla regarded her suspiciously. “Why are you still in your bathrobe? It’s late.”
“It’s seven a.m.”
“Arlo says on a farm, anything after six a.m. is midday.”
“Arlo says a lot of things. Most of them are only true if you’re old and cranky.”
Makayla grinned. Then, “Is Dillon coming today?”
“I’m not sure,” she said carefully. “He’s got a lot of calls scheduled this week.”
Makayla paused with the milk in her hand. She was very bright and could read a room better than some adults. She studied Tessa intently and then asked, “Is he mad at us?”
Gulp.
She made herself breathe. “No, honey. He’s not mad at anyone. He’s just . . .”
What? Protecting himself? Running from the drama in her life?
“He’s working through something,” Tessa said finally. “People do that sometimes.”
“Like when I wouldn’t talk to Ashley Deckard for a week?”
“Why wouldn’t you talk to Ashley Deckard?” Tessa queried.
“Because she said French braids look babyish.”
“They do not.”
