I’m gutted because my son has grown another attachment in the wreckage, and somehow it isn’t a tragedy.
August comes to me next, sleepy and dirty and smelling like smoke and tomato sauce. “Derby said he’ll see court again tomorrow.”
“Did he?”
“Yep.”
I glance at Derby.
He looks caught.
“Tomorrow, huh?” I say.
Derby rubs the back of his neck. “Pending invitation.”
Hot Mama cackles.
August doesn’t understand the adult layer. He kisses my cheek, then goes with Maribel and the other kids toward the bunkhouse. I watch until he disappears inside.
Then the music changes.
A slower song.
Not sweet. Nothing in this place is too sweet. It has a rough guitar line and a woman’s voice singing about bad roads and worse men. The fire throws light across Derby’s face as he steps closer.
“Dance?” he asks.
The word hits me that same as they did in the Fire Pit.
This is different.
Just Derby asking in a campground full of women who would shoot him if I said no and he ignored it.
I put my hand in his. “Yes.”
He leads me near the edge of the firelight, not into the center, not making a show. His hand settles at my waist, and this time he doesn’t ask out loud.
He pauses with his palm hovering until I nod.
That is its own question.
Its own answer.
We move badly at first because we always do. Derby is built for motorcycles and fights, not dancing under string lights at a women’s outlaw shelter in Oregon. But he holds me like he remembers every place I’m bruised inside and refuses to press there unless invited.
“I’m mad at you,” I say.
His mouth curves slightly. “I figured.”
“You followed me.”
“You told me not to.”
“That usually means don’t.”
“With most men, maybe.”
“Derby.”