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In fact, I eat the whole box full. By the time my GPS tells me to turn right onto a dirt road, I have to hit the brakes hard. My fingers have left grease stains on the wheel.
“Fuck.” I pull to the roadside, sweep the crumbs off my lap, and stash the box in the trunk for good measure. Don’t want the kids to think I didn’t save them any. I guzzle some of the tea—okay, almost all of it. Then I pour it in the dirt—red dirt, I notice with satisfaction—and stash the cup. No reason for anyone to know I made a pit stop at the local honky-tonk.
I run my hand over my shadow—I can grow a beard in like six hours, so it’s scruffy already—and check my teeth in the mirror. Wonder what her teeth are like. I’m guessing that’s a stereotype. I make a mental note to dial back the assumptions.
I’m driving along, checking out some empty fields and the thick trees that tower over them, when I realize I’ve been bumping over this road for a while. I check the napkin.
Shit—I went too far.
I turn back around, the car’s tires kicking up a cloud of reddish dust as I press the pedal and head back in the direction I came from. I notice little things in the amber light of almost-sunset: a sliver of busted tire in the little ditch that runs along the left side of the dirt road…a little outhouse-looking wood shack with a tin roof off to the right, just behind a rickety metal gate. There’s barbed wire fence on each side of the road, framing barren fields and, in one case, a grove of trees. Not sure what kind. They’re tall, with regular leaves, so I can tell they aren’t pines.
There’s a barn out on the left. Looks like it’s a hundred years old. Dark wood, two stories. Kind of pretty if it wasn’t caving in. I think that’s a grain silo beside it. Tall, cylindrical, metal sort of thing with vines around the base of it. Same vines growing up the barn, too. Kudzu. Is that what it’s called?
I hit the brakes. There’s a driveway on the left, a little ribbon of dirt. My gaze darts down it, then snaps onto a house. It’s got to be hers. It’s a small, rundown farmhouse. White, two stories, with what looks like a screened porch on the front, a few trees around the front walk. It reminds me of Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.
Margot and Oliver are in there. My throat tightens thinking about them. It’s such bullshit, what happened. The last thing a kid needs after losing their parents is to have everything else they hold dear snatched away from them. I wonder how they’re holding up.
I get a deep breath and start down the driveway at a crawl. It’s got a ton of bumps. Someone needs to smooth it out. Tractors can do that, I bet. She’s selling a tractor. She should fire it up and fix this pitted driveway. My rented wheels bounce over it. Once, the underside of the car scrapes as I bounce over a dirt hill.
June Bug, sweetheart, payday’s coming…
I park under one of the trees and slide my wallet into my back pocket. Then I walk to the screen porch door, open it slowly, and step inside. The porch is surprisingly cozy, with a white porch swing, a colorful rug, and a small bookshelf beside the front door. I look down at the welcome mat. It’s a smiling pineapple. Strange.
I take another deep breath and knock twice, and hope to hell the kids are happy to see me. I hear footsteps. Oliver, maybe, because they’re heavy. Instead, the door opens and— Who the hell is this babe?
My first thought is that June left Oliver and Margot with a babysitter. I give the girl a quick glance, my gaze moving from her high, blonde-brown ponytail to her delicate face. I don’t know who she is, but this girl is big-screen beautiful.
Her eyes are gold-brown and her skin is creamy. She’s got soft, pink lips that part as I stare at them. Her eyes widen—she could be posing for a contact lens commercial—and my gaze darts down her body. Small. Soft. Nineteen at most. She’s got on a long, gray shirt that clings to her breasts, a strange owl necklace, and black leggings. Definitely the babysitter.
“Hi.” I flash her a charming smile. “I’m here to see my niece and nephew—Oliver and Margot.”
Her eyes widen wider. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Her voice is softer than her curves. Melodious.
I hold my hand out. “I’m their paternal uncle.” I look her over again, trying not to let her see how fucking hot I think she is. “Your name?”
