“Gladys, Paul,” I call out and wave.“Thanks for having him.”
“Of course, Kelly, you know we adore Evan.Now, you have a nice week at school, son,” Gladys calls back.
“Evan?”I look at him expectantly.
“Bye-bye Grams, Gramps.Thanks for having me,” he murmurs.
We turn and walk back to the truck, and I help Evan put his bag on the floor of the cabin.
“How was your weekend?”I ask once we’re both in our seats, buckled in all safe and sound inside the truck.
“Fine, I guess,” Evan mutters, staring down at his sneakers.
My stomach tightens.
Usually, my son is a chatterbox.Especially when we haven’t seen each other for a couple of days.
I frown.
“Evan?Is something wrong?”
He shrugs.
But he stays quiet, and that’s unusual.
And I don’t push.
He’s had too much change lately.
Parents divorcing.
Having to move.
Whispers at school.
Adult conversations he pretends not to hear.
When we’re together, I want him safe.
Comfortable.
Happy.
Not interrogated.
“So, it’s turning into a beautiful day,” I say instead, glancing out at the bright blue sky.“Uncle Thatch is firing up the grill.I heard there’s going to be lobster tails and ribs.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods.
I bite my lip, nerves rising.
Because, well, there’s alsoanother thingabout today’s little lunch party.
J.T.will be there.
Not in passing.
Not just ahello at the millkind of way.
