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“For how long?”
He hesitates. “Half an hour. Sometimes forty minutes.”
A vivid image flashes through my mind: little Theo sitting alone on a bench while the other children head home one by one. My grip tightens around my keys.
“You can’t do that.”
Levi frowns. “He doesn’t care.”
“He’s ten.”
“He reads.”
“Get in the car,” I say. “I’ll drive.”
He glances toward his house.
“You’ll take too long,” I say, already opening my door.
He hesitates, so I get in, start the engine, and beep the horn.
“Christ, woman, I’m coming,” he mutters, opening the passenger door. He folds his large frame into my little hatchback, making the car feel suddenly, absurdly small. The moment the door closes, the scent of him fills the space between us—fresh-cut grass and sweat from a day spent working in the sun.
It should bother me.
It doesn’t.
I grip the steering wheel and reverse out of the driveway, refusing to think about that. At the end of the street, I brake a little harder than necessary before turning onto the main road.
“He goes to the school down the road?” I ask.
“Yeah. Alton Elementary, or something like that.”
“How do you find it?”
“Dunno. I don’t go there.”
My eyebrows rise. “But you’ve met the principal? His teachers?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Well, it’s a good idea. Being involved helps.”
He grimaces, shifting uncomfortably in the seat as I pull up behind a line of cars at the lights. “They’re all a bit…you know.”
I wait.
“Do-gooders,” he mutters. “Always leaving me voicemails about rules.”
“Kids need rules,” I reply.
“Theo has rules. I give him a bedtime and everything.”
I glance at him. “What time?”
He pauses. “Depends how annoying he’s being.”
The light turns green, and I take a little too long to move.
