August nods solemnly. “Derby asks.”
My throat closes so fast it hurts.
Lottie glances at me, then looks away.
The words sit in the car with us.
Derby asks.
Yes. He does.
He asked before he touched my back in public. Asked before kissing me. Asked before removing my shirt. Asked while his body shook with restraint and mine shook with wanting. Asked like my yes wasn’t a hurdle but the whole damn point.
I press my fingers against my thigh until the ache distracts me.
Don’t cry at the sign.
I have been crying across half the country. In gas station bathrooms. Into motel pillows. Behind sunglasses while August slept with Blue Rex tucked under his chin. I have no tears left that will fix anything.
Lottie reaches over and pats my knee once. “Straighten up, honey. They smell fear and casserole guilt.”
“What is casserole guilt?”
“The kind women get when they think they ought to bring something to every disaster.”
“I didn’t bring anything.”
“You brought yourself and the boy. That counts.”
“That sounds like something from a greeting card written by a biker with a felony.”
“Most wisdom is.”
She drives under the sign before I can argue.
Lonerock opens around us like a place stitched together from opposites. Summer camp and war camp. Shelter and clubhouse. Healing retreat and armed compound. The road curves through tall pines and dusty ground toward a cluster of buildings tucked into the trees. There are bunkhouse cabins with painted doors, some bright yellow, some turquoise, some the red of a warning light. A communal kitchen sits near the center with smoke curling from a metal chimney. Long picnic tables stretch beneath a covered pavilion. A campfire circle waits nearby, ringed in stones and mismatched chairs.
A spa building stands off to one side, its sign hand-painted with curling letters:SAGE & SIN WELLNESS. There are bundles of dried herbs hanging from the porch beams, crystals glittering in the windows, and a shotgun propped behind the counter just visible through the glass.
Of course.
Across from it is a garage with bikes lined in front, black and chrome and painted in colors that make the Kentucky Kings’ bikes look almost polite. A purple Dyna with silver flames. A red Harley with a skull wearing lipstick on the tank. A black touring bike with a tiny crown painted over the headlight. Tools hang on pegboards inside. A woman with shaved hair and grease on both arms is arguing with another woman over a carburetor like they might settle it with wrenches.
Laundry hangs between two cabins.
Children run beneath it.
That is what stops me.
The children.
August sees them too. His whole body changes in the back seat. He presses both hands to the window, Blue Rex trapped under one elbow.
“Mama,” he breathes. “Kids.”
There are six that I can see at first. Maybe more. A girl with dark braids and purple rain boots runs past carrying a foam sword. A boy about August’s age chases her with a plastic shield made from a painted trash-can lid. Two toddlers sit in the dirt with toy trucks, guarded by a woman smoking on a porch with a baby asleep against her chest. An older kid, maybe ten, helps a smaller one carry paper plates toward the kitchen.
They are loud.