“From me?”
“From Jeremy. From jail. From blood.”
“My hands were dirty before you.”
“I know. But I didn’t want to be the reason they got dirtier.”
He takes a step closer, then stops himself. Always stopping. Always giving me the last inches.
“That was mine to decide,” he says.
“I know.”
“And leaving was yours.”
I nod, tears blurring him. “Yes.”
“Then we both got something to answer for.”
Before I can speak, Hot Mama cuts in from the side.
“Well, ain’t that romantic. Two wounded fools discovering accountability in dirt.”
Derby turns his head slowly. “You always interrupt?”
“Only when I’m bored or right.”
“You’re both.”
“Careful, Kentucky. I let you past the sign. I can still have Shortie escort you out by your pretty little neck.”
Derby’s mouth tightens. “Little?”
Hot Mama looks him up and down with open amusement. “Emotionally.”
I bite the inside of my cheek because laughing feels dangerous.
Derby catches it anyway.
His eyes flick to mine, and for one second the ache between us warms into something familiar. Hot Mama sees that too. She sees everything and charges people for the privilege of being seen.
“You two can finish bleeding on each other later,” she says. “Kids eat first, and supper’s about to start.”
Derby looks around. “This place always run like a summer camp with parole?”
“Only on weekdays,” Hot Mama says. “Weekends we add crafts.”
A woman near the kitchen yells, “And rage yoga!”
Derby mutters, “Hell.”
Hot Mama grins. “No, baby. Hell is Kentucky. This is Queen’s country.”
The Queens answer with food.
That is the first thing Derby learns.
No one asks if he is hungry. A woman named Baby Doll hands him a paper plate loaded with spaghetti, garlic bread, and something fried that might be okra. Harlot points him toward a picnic table with a wrench and says if he drips on the bench, he wipes it himself. Shortie watches him like she is waiting for him to give her a reason to unload the rifle across her knees.