Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I kill the engine and lean forward, elbows on my knees.
The woman’s voice trails off as the chapter ends, leaving a quiet ache in its place.
I’m screwed.
Fully, completely, royally screwed.
26
Wren
Friday night consists of me, Atticus, and a bowl of half-stale popcorn.
We’re curled up on the worn leather couch in the living room, a stack of mismatched blankets piled over our laps, watching Cars 2 for what has to be the hundredth time. I’m pretty sure I could recite the script by memory at this point, which probably isn’t the flex I think it is.
He’s snuggled against my side, warm and squishy, the faint smell of his lavender shampoo still clinging to his hair. He doesn’t even like cars, not really. He just likes watching Mater be a “dumbo” and Lightning McQueen be a “show-off.” His words, not mine.
Halfway through the movie, he shifts under the blanket and looks up at me with those sleepy, clear-blue eyes of his. “Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“When can I see Hunter again?” he asks.
The question hits like a flick to the temple—sharp and unexpected.
I pull my attention from the screen, my heart doing that annoying little stutter thing it does whenever his name comes up. “Hunter?”
“Yeah. He’s funny,” he says. “And he knows everything about farms. Like, everything. I miss him.”
“We just met him, buddy,” I say. “He’s our neighbor.”
Atticus squints, his nose scrunching like I just told him two plus two equals seven. “I know, but . . . is he ever coming over again?”
I smooth a hand over his still-damp curls, trying to keep my face neutral. “He’s pretty busy running his farm, but I’m sure we’ll see him around.”
Atticus turns his attention back to the movie, but the way he asked stays lodged in my chest like a splinter I can’t dig out.
There was no weight to his question, no hidden desire for a dad or some father figure. Just innocent curiosity. A kid asking when he’s going to see the cool guy who knows about tractors and wildflowers.
I’ve been so busy putting up walls around us, labeling Hunter as nothing more than “the neighbor,” that it never occurred to me maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’m being too protective. Not that I’m looking to pawn my son off on some man—not after everything we’ve been through.
But still.
Atticus deserves more than a helicopter mom with a keyboard for a best friend.
He deserves someone to show him how to bait a hook, fix a busted fence, and teach him the names of trees just by the shape of their leaves.
Hunter’s that kind of man. The kind who knows things. The kind who does things. And despite his tendency to brood and scowl, he likes my kid. I saw it in the way he humored Atticus’s never-ending questions, how he knelt in the dirt to plant wildflower seeds with him like it wasn’t a waste of time.
No man’s ever done that for my son before. Not even Nick. Especially not Nick. Nick only ever took him to do the things he wanted to do—hockey games, golf outings, live music festivals. Atticus wasn’t into any of that, but he was always tickled to be his sidekick.
By the time the credits roll and Atticus is fast asleep on my shoulder, I’ve decided I’m possibly overthinking this, overcompensating for all the things that went wrong before. Maybe it isn’t fair to hold Hunter accountable for the so-called crimes of the men who came before him.
I carry my son upstairs and tuck him into bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead before I head back down.
Tonight, the house is the kind of quiet that’s heavy and drags your thoughts to places they don’t need to go. I need some fresh air, so I make my way to the porch, flipping on the switch to the old carriage light next to the front door. The bulb buzzes faintly, casting a warm halo over the steps.
Last time I sat out here with this light on, Hunter showed up out of nowhere. For all I know, that thing might be some kind of Bat-Signal for grumpy blue-eyed farmers.
More than likely it isn’t, but I sit down on the porch swing, curling my knees to my chest, my gaze flicking to the ribbon of gravel road just past the trees. The moon’s thin and crooked tonight, hanging low in the sky like it’s watching and waiting too.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Either way, the light stays on.
Just in case.
27
Hunter
I wake up in the cab of my tractor with a crick in my neck and my mouth tasting like morning breath and regret.
6:04 a.m.
I must’ve dozed off sometime around three, after wrapping up the south field. I told myself I’d rest my eyes for just a minute, let the engine idle while I mustered up the energy to climb out and drive home, but that was three hours ago, and the only thing that cooled was my body to the point I can’t feel my damn fingers.