Page 5

She dropped her head into her hands, a sinking feeling settling in as she wondered how much the Jeep would cost to fix this time. And to prove bad luck traveled in pairs, that arrogant ass was planning to take away the closest thing to a home she and Hannah had ever had.

The decrepit shanty out back .

Seething, Fontana traced the jagged scratch running from the tip of her index finger to the middle of her palm, an injury from pruning rose bushes. She touched the scar on her wrist. Cutting sections of zoysia sod last spring.

All work done on True land.

Digging in the modest patch of dirt behind that decrepit shanty, she’d accepted the first slice of contentment in a life filled with grief and disgrace.

Her mistake?

She had allowed herself, for one fleeting, dream-filled moment, to believe the land she loved with all her heart and cared for unconditionally was hers .

KI T

Someone was looking for him.

Christopher Ryland True flicked a cricket from his arm and stared at the house on the hill.

One after another, lights sparked, then died.

Top floor, right window—his grandfather’s bedroom.

Wouldn’t find anyone there. John Nelson had gotten a little dotty and Zoozie Hamilton had taken him to her house for the night.

Dotty was the same as drunk, Zoozie said, but sounded gentler on the lips.

She was a librarian, and about as ancient as his grandfather, so he believed her.

Gentle speech, mild manners, Kit understood these were the hallmarks of a true Southern gentleman. He had the required three generations on his father’s side, but as for his mom’s...well, better to just pretend.

The thought of her brought a sting to his eyes, but then he went and remembered one of the bad times and it blew the sting out like breath to a match.

Like the time she slapped him when he’d asked her about growing up in some crappy neighborhood in Philadelphia, just curious if he had family there.

Like, someone else in case Promise didn’t work out.

She’d marked his face with her yucky, red nails, then made him lie and say he got into a fight when he went to soccer practice that afternoon.

In the end, things had worked out okay. Sophia Dell had given him a second look that day, kinda like he’d proven his coolness by beating someone up.

It was good coming from bad, just like Fontana always said it could.

If Sophia decided to, well, kiss him by the end of the school year, he wouldn’t be the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Which, of course, his grandfather had warned him not to do, though Kit had never quite understood what that meant .

Grass tickling the back of his neck, Kit shifted, propping his head higher on his crossed arms. The cicadas’ call was almost as loud as the air rushing from his lips.

He loved the sound, longed for it. Another light flickered.

His bedroom this time. Holding his breath until it hurt, he let it swoosh from his lungs.

Still numb inside, deep in his chest. Not dead like Celia, for sure, but.

..numb. Not sad-numb, either. He'd been sad when his father died, because the old man had tried to be dad-ish, in that sickly, slobbering, spit-down-the-sides-of-his-mouth way.

Kit could still remember pushing past Camp and seeing his father’s body sprawled in his cracked leather chair, lips blue like the berries behind the house.

Staring at the gross, stiff corpse—like something out of a movie—he’d done what no Southern gentleman would ever do and puked in the wastebasket.

His father’s favorite, the metal one with the American flag on the front.

Camp had held his hand at the funeral, let him cry on his shoulder, ruining some expensive sweater, while his mom acted all weird, like usual.

But his brother hadn’t stayed long.

Kit guessed Camp thought he would dirty another sweater this time, in some bigger life way.

Except Kit didn’t want to ruin any sweaters.

Not now.

He’d only seen his mom twice in the past six months.

Whenever John Nelson sent her a telegram telling her to get her skinny ass home or he’d call Camp, here she came, roaring down the drive with a middle finger in attitude, making it clear how she felt about being summoned.

Skinny-ass, his grandfather always called her.

Sometimes, pretty bravely, even right to her face.

When he did, Celia’d get all red-cheeked, spit some vile name at John Nelson, and storm off. She’d end up coming home at dawn, smelling like the alley behind Mr. McHenry’s grocery store the day before garbage pickup.

In the house, Kit’s bedroom light flicked off, the search over.

Not sure if he’d let Camp find him, because deep down, he knew who was looking, he located the brightest star in the sky, imagining how cool it would be to have a real mom.

One you’d feel in-the-gut bad about dying diving off some fancy boat in her underwear.

Like Mrs. Cunningham or that Donna Reed chick.

He watched Nick at Night with John Nelson and, sure, those shows were kinda goofy, but they did make you wonder.

Could life be better, without DVDs and satellite dishes and Nikes you pumped up?

No divorces, no mixed-up families, no half-thises and step-thats did sound cool.

And less complicated.

Although Camp was only his half-brother—not full or anything—Kit didn’t feel any less because of it.

He loved Camp more than anyone in the world.

It was a gut-decision kind of thing, not something to ponder too much—more of his grandfather’s advice—because his brother disappointed him like all the rest.

In the distance, Camp called his name, and Kit let out a shaky sigh of relief.

So...he had come home.

Stomach starting to churn, Kit reached into his backpack, grabbed a lemon MoonPie and took a healthy bite.

He mighta had it in him to hate his brother if he hadn’t been sure his mom had something to do with him leaving and not wanting to come back.

Kit was sharp, and he’d heard a conversation or two he likely shouldn’t have.

Besides, people who hated each other stood out like goats in a flock of sheep.

Kit swallowed, wishing he hadn’t guzzled the whole can of RC Cola.

Would Camp even recognize him? He’d grown about an inch since the last visit.

Kit slid his tongue over his teeth, wincing.

He’d gotten braces, too. Sniffling, he hurled the MoonPie to the ground.

Couldn’t Camp have come back more often?

At least for his mom’s lousy funeral? Flopping onto his back, he wiped tears from his eyes.

Blowing his nose on his sleeve, Kit decided to stay hidden until he got it together. Gentlemen, everyone knew, didn’t cry in public.

Maybe Camp would worry. But, heck, didn’t he deserve to?

Probably the first time his brother had thought about him in a long time.