Her eyes soften for half a second, and damn her, that makes it worse.
Then she walks out.
I follow to the porch because I’m still me.
She looks back when she reaches the truck. “You’re not following me?”
“No.”
“You’re standing on the porch.”
“Porches are for standing.”
“Derby.”
“I ain’t following.”
She studies me like she is trying to decide if I’m a liar.
I deserve that.
Finally, she climbs into the truck. It starts on the second try, which is basically a miracle and proof Wildcat has witchcraft in his hands. Amelia’s shoulders lift with the sound. She backs out slow, checks the mirrors twice, then drives down the gravel.
I stand on the porch until the truck disappears around the curve.
Then I keep standing.
The air feels wrong without her in the driveway.
That is stupid.
I have known this woman less time than some hangovers. My house was mine three days ago. Quiet. Ugly. Functional. Now there is cereal in the cabinet, dinosaur court in the living room, little socks in the laundry, and a woman driving away with my pulse hooked to her bumper.
Behind me, August says, “Are you sad?”
I turn.
He stands in the open doorway with Blue Rex under one arm, spoon in the other, milk on his chin.
“No.”
“You look sad.”
“I look mean.”
“Mean can be sad.”
Hell.
Who gave this kid a philosophy degree?
I step inside and shut the door. “Finish your cereal.”
“Can we watch Widowmaker?”
“Watch her do what?”
“Be loud.”