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“You’re a tough, strong, brave little badass, okay?”
She giggles. “Okay.”
As she takes off again, I jog beside her, but when I notice her wanting to stop, I push her faster. “Pedal, Abby. Don’t stop. You got this!”
When her little feet pick up speed, and she starts drifting away from me, I start to feel more excited than I’ve been in a long time. Stopping on the side of the road, I raise my hands in the air, shouting in excitement for her as she pedals all the way to the end of the street.
“That’s it, Abby! Go! Go!” I yell.
When she reaches the stop sign, she manages a shaky turn and rides back toward me. I’m still cheering her on as she comes to a stop at my side, planting her feet on the ground as she shrieks.
“I did it! Did you see me? I did it!”
“Fuck yeah, you did it!” I shout.
When she hops off her bike, letting it fall to the ground, I hoist her into the air, swinging her triumphantly. She squeals with excitement, and when a couple passes by walking their dog, I place Abby on my shoulders and point to her.
“Look at this badass. She just learned to ride her bike without training wheels.”
They smile at us and congratulate her as Abby laughs uncontrollably.
“Natural born talent,” I continue as the couple passes by. “Watch out, Tour de France. Abigail Goode is the next bike-riding champion!”
She waves her arms in the air as we both laugh, jogging around the front yard like it’s a victory lap. When I finally put her back down, she runs to her bike and climbs back on. Without any struggle, she starts riding around again, flying down the street like she’s been doing it for years.
I watch with pride, a smile stretched across my face.
When a black car turns down the street, coming toward us, I shout for Abby to stay on the sidewalk. I expect the car to drive past our house, but as it comes to a stop at the end of our driveway, I stare in concern.
Abby rides back toward me, stopping near the parked car.
“Abby, get over here,” I bark.
“Who is that?” she asks as she ditches her bike and rushes up to my side.
“I don’t know,” I reply, waiting for someone to get out. I push Abby behind me, just in case.
The driver’s side door opens, and my jaw drops when I see a face from my past emerge. Truett Goode does not look anything like the booming force of a man I knew twelve years ago. He’s withered away since then.
“Grandpa?” Abby murmurs tentatively. I keep a hand on her shoulder, holding her there.
“You,” he mutters, his fierce gaze colliding with mine. When he makes his way to the front of the car, I notice the clumsiness in his movement. He’s drunk. “What are you doing here?” he slurs.
“I live here,” I argue.
He scoffs. “Where is my son?”
“He’s not here, so why don’t you go?”
“Dean, what’s going on?” Abby whines behind me.
“Go in the house, Abby,” I mutter.
Of course, she doesn’t budge, clinging tighter to my side. I can feel her hand squeezing my arm in a death grip. The fact that he’s scaring her makes my blood boil.
“You’re the one my son was talking about, aren’t you? You turned him into a?—”
“Watch your mouth,” I bark, shouting over his slur and hoping Abby didn’t hear it. “Leave now, or I’ll call the police.”
