Page 31 of Goode Tidings

Callum points at Tim. "He's holding it for me behind the register."

"Then why were you creeping around the rest of the store?"

"I was browsing. Ever heard of it?"

"Nope," I answer, popping the 'p' sound.

Tim mutters something, and I can only hear one word: antagonize. "Need a bag?" he asks, to which I shake my head no.

I thank Tim and place the tweezers he's handing me in my purse. I flick a glance over my shoulder at Callum. "See you at home." It's my turn to smirk.

The man has the audacity to hit me with dual finger guns. It works. I stop dead in my tracks, mouth open in shocked indignation. Oh, Callum. You've met your match.

Arms folded across my midsection, I face him head on. Something tells me Tim was not expecting to be treated to such a show today. "Really, Callum? You're going to make fun of me? Awfully bold of you, considering I've seen your bare ass and your d⁠—"

"Do not finish that sentence." Callum's command is strong, his tone rich, and underneath it all, I detect the barest (pun intended) hint of amusement.

With a swish of my fingers at both men, I sail out the hardware store door, bell tinkling as I go.

CHAPTER 14

Callum

Dick. She was definitely going to say dick.

CHAPTER 15

Eden

Dingaling. I know what Callum was thinking, but he forgets I've been raising a boy for the last fourteen years. Anatomical correctness went out the window somewhere around fourth grade when peer influence became a thing, and it's been juvenile terms ever since. And drawings in salt, apparently.

CHAPTER 16

Callum

I'm headed up the path I've worn for myself between my office and my car when the front door to the cabin bursts open. Eden steps out, looking slightly manic. Her hair wraps around itself on the top of her head, a pencil stuck through the knot. She wears a cream colored top with large, gold buttons and those jeans I've thought of a handful of times. They look so damn soft.

She hasn't seen me, or if she has, she's paying me no mind. She only has eyes for the yellow school bus lumbering down Lake Circle road.

She stands on the front porch, a plate of something in her hand. I'd like to keep going to my vehicle, but I don't want to draw attention to myself, so I slide back in the shadow of the cabin. My dangling keys make a noise, and I curl my palm to quiet them. It can't be too long before Oliver is off the bus and Eden's ushering him inside to grill him about his day at school.

Did my mother anxiously await my return from school? I don't clearly remember her doing that, so I'm leaning toward no. My mom was a perfunctory mom. She was fine. She checked all the boxes, I was fed and clothed and safe. But did she eagerly anticipate spending time with me, the way Eden appears to genuinely enjoy Oliver's company? That would be a no. She still doesn't. From what I can tell, she considers her role as parent to have concluded. We call every so often, and she returns for a visit once a year. At this point she feels like an old friend who happens to have also raised me.

The bus grinds to a halt, brakes protesting. Oliver steps off first, followed by the two boys who live next door.

At the sight of Oliver, a smile blossoms on Eden's face. Tucking the edge of the plate against her midsection with one hand, she raises the other to wave. Oliver sees her and offers a short wave in return.

Cupping two hands around his mouth, Oliver shouts, "Is it ok if I go to Eugenio's house to do homework?"

Eden looks down for the shortest moment at whatever it is she's holding. Her jaw tenses, the muscles in her shoulders growing taut. She lowers the plate below the railing, out of Oliver's eyesight. But not out of mine.

"Sure," she yells back, her tone unbothered. Oliver turns, loping off.

"Sure," she repeats, quieter, her voice breaking.

And me? I suddenly feel out of sorts. Like I want to fix what's wrong. Make it all better, because that sad look and shaky voice has me in knots.

Eden looks at the plate, held in her left hand. Her lower lip trembles, her throat undulating with a hard swallow. Her right hand forms a fist, and she lifts it hip height before bringing it down onto the center of the plate. It's not a particularly violent move, more a gesture of sorrow than anything else.