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“I should go,” I whisper to Ford, throat pinched and panic crawling under my skin like seven million tiny spiders.

“No. Stay,” he says, reaching for his shirt behind him on the bed.

“Really,I—”

“Ford?” I don’t have to see her to recognize the voice. Charlene Callahan is in the room, shrinking its size to a small cage.

I look at her, force a smile. Her eyes meet mine—briefly—but they move to Ford, doing the same once-over both Wren and I already gave him, worried look on her timeless face. She’s beautiful in a classy way. Chock-full of southern charm, she’s always stood out—shining slightly brighter than everyone else in her cashmere sweaters and chino pants.

“Mama,” Ford says slipping his shirt over his head and dragging it down his torso, wincing as he stands from the bed. “I’m fine. You have that look in your eyes.”

She scoffs, her dark hair—now laced with more strands of silver than not—swaying as she gives a disbelieving head shake. Even during an emergency, she has great skin and style. “My son got shot, Ford, did you want me to come in with a party hat?” She steps next to him, giving him a hug and looking him over again as I take a silent step back.

She notices. “Scotty,” she says. Her voice properly southern, her smile genuinely forced. “You’re here.”

I give her a tight smile and cut my eyes to Ford. He stifles a laugh, draping an arm around Wren and clutching a palm over his chest.

“Hi, Mrs. Callahan.” I barely recognize my high-pitched voice. “I’m here. Surprise. Twenty years later and Ford’s shot.”What?I clear my throat and lift my arms as if I’m going to hug her. When she stares at them and pulls her chin back, I drop them by my side. “Right.”

This woman turns me into a fucking moron.

Her Callahan-patented blue eyes travel over the length of me, taking in my usual attire of fitted pants, heels, and a blazer, lingering on the Weird Al Yankovic shirt with a skeptical look.

“You haven’t changed,” she says with raised eyebrows and a tilt of her head and lips I can’t decode.

“Crematorium air,” I say with a grin and a fist pump through the air I don’t think I’ve ever made before. “Keeps me preserved.”

Wren’s eyes narrow, Ford stifles another laugh, and Charlene crosses her arms over her perfectly pink sweater, staring at me before letting out an exasperated sigh and turning back to Ford.

She starts talking to him about job safety, and I have the sudden urge to flee like a criminal.I’m going to go,I mouth to Ford over her shoulder.

Charlene says something to Wren, prompting her to start rattling off the series of events that led them to finding out he was shot and Ford nods as he listens to them. To me he mouths,Okay, girlfriend.

I flip him off so only he can see.

Then I replay his words the whole drive home.

Thirty-One

“Peoplewhorunforfun,” I pant, hinging at the waist, “are fucking lunatics.”

“Swearing,” Wren gasps, hands squeezing her hips as she walks a circle on the pavement trying to catch her breath. “But we made it a whole mile today.”

I shake my head, convinced my lungs are too collapsed to talk, and start walking toward the house, Wren following suit. Molly trots beside us like she could go for eight more miles. I can’t complain too much. I don’t know if it’s the running or the fact I’ve run out of things for her to eat, the dog has been significantly less feral.

“How’s school? And Luke?” I ask with deepening breaths.

“I’ve been talking to him in art. I drew his face.” She smiles shyly. “He asked if I was going to be at Orchard Fest this weekend.”

“Attagirl.” I nudge her with my elbow, but she doesn’t react. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s this girl—Becca—she’s popular and maybe they dated or something.” She pinches the sleeves of her shirt with her fingers. “I think she knows I like him. The way she looks at me . . .”

“She a bitch?”

Wren laughs softly. “Something like that. I think her mom went to high school with Dad. Letts is her last name.”

I scoff. “Jessica Letts? Adam her dad?”