Page 26 of Rhodes

My phone is warm in my hand before I decide to pick it up. The screen sits dark, and my own face floats there in the black, mouth pulled tight, hair coming loose from this morning's braid. I look like someone spoiling for a fight with no one to fight.

My thumb moves on its own to the contacts, the M's, because that's where she lived, right there under my thumb my whole life. Mama.

The name is still in my phone.

The last thread is still there too, a photo I sent her of the growing coastline where we added mud and planted marsh grass that took. Just below it is the last text she ever sent to me.

Proud of you.

She typed it from a hospital bed, and she never once made it about the bed. She answered every message I ever sent, right up until she couldn't hold the phone.

She'd have gotten it, both halves at once, in about four seconds flat. She'd have laughed at me for being mad that a man, who's basically my brother, fixed my car without asking, in a tank top, looking unfairly sexy doing it, no less.

Then, before I could feel dumb about it, she'd have gone quiet and said, but you had it handled, baby, and he took that from you. She held both things without dropping either. Nobody else does that.

The ache comes up fast, that specific one. I press the heel of my hand against my eye, once, hard, and breathe through it. Two tears get out, and I let them, before I shut it down.

I call Libba.

"Hey." Her voice comes through light and airy, and something in my chest loosens knowing she's on the other end of the line. "You're a busy woman."

"I know. Sorry I missed you twice. Tuesdays are usually my busy days, and today piled it on extra."

"Is everything okay?"

I know she doesn't mean it like the rest of my family when she asks, but I also know she can't help but worry when it sounds like I'm overwhelmed. Everyone always thinks I'll slide backwards when the going gets rough. It's why I'm living with Rhodes Stone, no less.

"Nothing's wrong. Just had some car issues, and I've been hitching rides for the last week."

"Tilly! A week? What's going on? Why is it still not fixed? I told you that you shouldn't be driving that old car. Let Grandbank buy you a reliable one. He said he would."

"It is reliable. And Rhodes fixed it, so I'm good now."

"So what's the problem? I don't understand why you seem upset."

"I'm not upset, just tired. I said it's been a busy day, that's all."

Silence fills the line. It's a family joke that I talk in pieces and never complete the whole scene. She knows there's more to it.

"He didn't ask before he did it," I say finally.

"And?"

"I had a friend scheduled to come take care of it today, skipped my lab to do it on his schedule, and then we showed up to Rhodes under the car."

"Okay, Tilly, you're going to have to walk me through this. What in the world has you so tied up over this? Rhodes did you a favor and you've got your panties in a wad about it? What am I missing?"

"It's just, I had it handled, and he took it upon himself like I'm incapable of dealing with my own vehicle, and fixed it without asking me what I had planned for it. Plus, it was embarrassing. I showed up with my friend, who took time away from his schedule, drove an hour to the city, only to not be needed."

"Okay, no, that's annoying."

"Right. Exactly." I lean back against the counter.

"So this isn't friends-ending level, just irritating. I mean, he was doing it to be nice. Not everything someone does means they think you're incapable."

"I know, Libs, that's what makes it worse. I'm mad at myself for being mad at him—" I stop. The sentence runs out of road.

"Tilly." Her voice softens.