Nothing comes.
Images flash too fast to catch. Derby on the couch. Derby on his knees fixing a blanket fort. Derby putting keys in my hand. Derby telling August that part ain’t fake. Derby asleep in bed, trusting me to come back.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
August’s eyes fill immediately. “Is he still sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Can I tell him bye?”
I nearly make a sound.
No.
No, because if August touches Derby, Derby wakes.
If Derby wakes, I stay.
If I stay, Jeremy keeps reaching, and Derby keeps answering with his fists until one day he doesn’t come home from jail or Jeremy doesn’t come home at all.
Lottie steps closer. “Sugar, Derby needs sleep. Jail makes men cranky as wet possums.”
August looks at her like he isn’t buying it, which proves he has some sense.
“I want to tell him.”
“I know,” I say.
“Will he be mad?”
At me, yes.
At you, never.
“No,” I lie.
August’s lower lip trembles. “He said he doesn’t fake like me.”
That breaks me.
A tear slips down before I can stop it.
I pull him into me and hold on. “He doesn’t.”
“Then why isn’t he coming?”
Because your mother is a coward.
Because your mother is brave.
Because sometimes those are the same thing in different lighting.
“Because this part is for us first,” I whisper. “Me and you. Then we figure out the rest.”
August doesn’t understand.
Good.