Page 11

“I guess I figured he’d move out to Vegas or something. Get away from here and join one of those famous gyms. He has the talent, and since Chris could go with him, there’s no real reason to stay here.”

“Not everyone abandons their roots,” she sneers. “Those boys had it a million times worse than you ever did, but when push came to shove and family loyalties were on the line, you skipped town before the ink on your high school diploma was dry. Tommy and Chris knew their mother needed them.”

“Their mother?” Pamela Watkins is nothing but a neglectful, drug-addled, child-abusing whore. Screw that bitch and anything she wanted. “Why would she need them? What happened?”

“Grady left about the same time you did. He hasn’t been back in all this time, and Pamela was lonely, so her boys knew to stick close.”

“They see her often?”

“No.” Another page. “And she took off a few years later. Still, they did the right thing by her. A woman’s child running to the other side of the country is cruel. Probably half the reason I’m sick.”

Yeah, that’s on me, you wretched bitch. Of course it is.

But I focus on the Watkins family. On Pamela and Grady, and though my heart thunders, Tommy and Chris, too.

“Is Grady still alive?” I swallow the dry ache in the base of my throat, pressing my palm to my stomach when nerves make me a little nauseous. “Do they hear from him at all?”

“Don’t know. I don’t ask. Franklin?” She shouts, startling me until I stumble and the bell on the door noisily jingles above my head. “Grandma Bitsy’s ready to go home, and your mom turned the shop sign to closed. So I reckon she’s ready, too.”

“Don’t shout at him.” Crabby, I draw a long, lung-filling breath and exhale again until it feels like I might topple to the side and die.

But then I push away from the door and stride through the stacks until I find my son buried deep in his story.

“Honey?” I lower into a crouch and wait as he slowly emerges from his fictional world.

He blinks, reorienting himself. Then his eyes meet mine, and his lips curl into a sweet smile.

“It’s time to go home. But you can bring that book if you like.”

“That’s stealing.” He closes it up and slowly rises to his feet, holding the book between both hands and studying the colorful cover. “Actually, even reading it is stealing. I consumed something without paying for it.”

“We’ll pay so you can finish it and not feel bad.” I straighten out and gently take it from his hands, holding it to my chest the way he so often does. Then I wrap his palm with mine and start toward the front of the store. “I have to pay for the cookbook that Grandma’s reading, too.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Eavesdropping, my mom snaps her book closed and tosses it to the top of a precarious pile leaning dangerously to the side. “No need. I’m not even gonna cook any of those recipes.”

I release Franklin and grab the book before the whole stack topples, and walking both to the counter, I ring up our purchases and hand Franky’s book back with a wink.

“Fun fact—” I look into his eyes, but my words are for my mother.

“If you lick your finger and turn the pages, the book is no longer in sellable condition. Which means it now belongs to the finger-licker.”

“Never refer to me as a finger-licker ever again,” she sneers. “Disgustingly crass description, not at all fit for a lady.”

Lady? Where? I see none.

“I consider this a celebratory purchase to signify the beginning of something wonderful and new. Today was day one, honey. New job. New life. New adventure.”

“We moved here last week,” he deadpans. “So today is actually day six. And besides, you’ve spent more than you’ve earned. That’s not a good business model. ”

God, I love him . With everything in me and with every fiber of my soul, I love this little boy.

“That’s true. But today is still a special occasion, and to make up for it, I won’t buy any books tomorrow.” I ring up the sale and tap the button to open the register drawer… tap the button to open the… open the… “I think the till is broken. But I’ll fix this tomorrow, too.”

I jot down an IOU and place it on the little screen at the top of the register, and then I bend and snatch up my purse and keys. “Let’s go home. We still have to feed the animals before we have our own dinner.”

“Do you think cows might change their mind about grass someday and become carnivores?”

Clueless to the way I warily approach the shop exit and peek at the street outside— no Tommy Watkins in sight —Franky chatters and pulls the door wide.

“I know, historically, they’re herbivores.

But there’s a cow at Grandma’s that looks at me kinda funny.

And evolution exists. It’s the literal changing of a species over time to ensure its survival.

It’s entirely possible that cows have realized leafy greens aren’t enough, and it’s just our bad luck that Grandma’s cows are the start of something new. ”

“My cows are not meat eaters,” Bitsy grumbles. “You’re being ridiculous, Franklin.”

Not convinced, he glances up in silence and speaks a thousand words with a single look. He doesn’t believe her, but he knows voicing his thoughts comes with the risk of an hour-long lecture on why she’s right and how rude she thinks he is.

It took me years, puberty, and a boyfriend who constantly and consistently built me up to figure her out.

But my son has her pegged in less than a week.

Smartest person I ever knew.

“You smell a bit sweaty today.” I lock the shop door before leaning in and taking a long sniff of his neck. “Did you run around a lot in the park?”

He shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again, and starts toward the car. “Mostly did frog jumps. And made a friend.”

“Really?” I yank him to a stop and swing him back to face me. “You made a friend?”

“She talks a lot and is kinda loud. She made a friend,” he clarifies. “I met a peer.”

“Oh, well…” I choke out a laugh and continue toward the car. “I mean, that’s nice. Is she your age? Because that probably means you’ll go to the sa me school after the summer. Knowing someone, even if they’re a little loud, is a good thing, don’t you think?”

“Easy for you to say.” He reaffirms his grip on my hand, not yet at the ‘don’t touch me in public’ phase of childhood. “You’re not the one she keeps talking at.”

“She’s Molly Jenkins,” Mom inserts. “You remember Bart Jenkins? From the steel factory? Well, his son had a couple of kids. Molly is one of ‘em.”

“Molly.” Franky’s entire body trembles with faux exasperation. “Yeah. That’s her. She’s exhausting.”