My son is safe enough to complain about breakfast in the morning.
And someday, when I’m ready, when I choose it with my whole spine straight and my crown lifted, I will wear Derby’s patch.
Not because I’m property.
Because I’m a woman who can leave.
And I will keep choosing to ride home to him.
The burner phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Derby feels me stiffen.
I take the phone out.
One new message.
Diva.
The name still feels wrong on my skin.
Not because it doesn’t fit.
Because I’m afraid it does.
Below it, another line pops up.
Tell Kentucky he can listen after I decide he won’t embarrass you.
I snort despite myself.
Derby reads over my shoulder. “I hate her.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I profoundly dislike her in a respectful way.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It ain’t.”
“I need to call her.”
“I know.”
“Alone first.”
His jaw works.
“I know.”
“Can you watch August?”
That question lands between us differently than it did before.
Not as escape.
Not as panic.