“I don’t know.”
“Is Derby?”
My throat closes. “Not yet.”
He frowns. “You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t yet mean maybe?”
“Yes.”
He leans back and looks out the window. “Grown-ups make words slippery.”
Lottie sips her coffee. “Ain’t that the damn truth.”
“Language,” I whisper.
“Half-hearted correction. Doesn’t count.”
We drive.
And drive.
Kentucky gives way to Missouri in a blur of rain, truck stops, and Lottie’s muttered commentary about every driver who offends her. August sleeps with his head tipped against the window and Blue Rex tucked under his chin. I watch his reflection and wonder what memories he will keep from this. The fear? The road? Derby’s house? The dinosaur courthouse? Me crying behind sunglasses while Lottie curses at a semi for drifting lanes?
I hope he remembers Derby saying the part about liking him wasn’t fake.
Then I hope he forgets everything else.
Lottie breaks the silence somewhere west of St. Louis. “You gonna stare holes in that mirror the whole trip?”
“I keep thinking he’ll appear.”
“Derby?”
“Widowmaker.”
She snorts. “You named the man by the bike now?”
“The bike might behave better.”
“Not from what I hear.”
I turn my head toward her. “Will he come?”
“Eventually.”
“You sound sure.”
“Men like Derby don’t sit home while their heart gets dragged across state lines.”
The words hit so hard I look away.
“His heart?”
“Don’t start playing dumb. It don’t suit you.”