“Sorry.” Harry’s head lolled back in another yawn. “I dozed off in front of the TV. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Your mum’s hit a bit of a rough patch again?”
Harry kicked a rock with the toe of his sneaker. The tiny pebble soared over the oil-stained concrete and dinged against a hubcap, but he didn’t hoot about making the shot. “You were listening.” He frowned.
“Thin walls, kid.” Really thin walls. It wasn’t the first night he’d been stuck on the phone for hours. “Look, it’s not my place to say anything—”
“Then don’t,” he said. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Think so?” Possible. I’d suggested a few times that he should consider moving out of his mum’s place. He was a good kid, but his whole life was passing him by, paying for someone else’s mistakes.
“Yup,” he said. “You’re the king of routine. I could set the clock on my phone by you. You’re predictable.”
He spat the wordpredictableout like it was a disease. My father had always said the word for what I had—disorder—like it was a disease, too.
I squared my shoulders, defensive. “Nah, not really.” Who was I kidding? I only functioned because of the routine.
Harry grunted. “Says the man who’s eaten the exact same breakfast since we checked in last week.”
“Did not.”
“The motel owner didn’t even bother asking for your order today. She already knew!” To prove his point, Harry held up his hand and started ticking off my breakfast on his fingers. “Four strips of crispy bacon. Two fried eggs. A slice of toast. An apple.” He wiggled his thumb. “And a cup of black coffee.”
I scowled. And just what was wrong with that? “That’s a good breakfast!”
“It’s predictable.” He cocked his head. His eyes were on the black Henley I’d paired with my jeans. “This shirt, though. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Blame Ruth. She sent me a message earlier.” Or seven. “I was instructed to dress nice.”
Harry snorted. “I don’t think that shirt is what she meant when she said that.”
“Yeah? What does she mean then, smart arse?”
“Good clothes. You know, something fancy.” He tugged at the ribbing around the neck of his T-shirt. “Something with a proper collar. And when Miss Ruthie saysnice,she definitely doesn’t meanjeans.”
“You’re wearing jeans,” I pointed out.
“That’s ’cause Miss Ruthie didn’t tellmeto dressnice.” He grinned. “You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”
I hauled Harry’s bag off the dusty concrete and into the back of my truck. “I’m already in trouble. Ruth’s been on my arse all day about being home by six o’clock. Her last message had ten exclamation marks reminding me we should’ve left an hour ago.”
“She got something planned?” Harry’s eyes lit up. “Is she doing Fiesta Fridays again? Man, I’ve been dreaming of her tacos.”
“Sorry, mate, no tacos. She’s dragging us to the bar.”
“Lame.”
One hundred percent lame. We were on the same page. It wasn’t up to me, though, and standing around gasbagging all afternoon wasn’t getting us home any quicker. I pointed for Harry to get moving. He was dawdling to the passenger side when he skidded to a stop.
“Hey, old man,” he called over his shoulder. “There’s, uh—there’s atreein the back of your truck.”
No shit. “It’s for Lola.”
“Wetalkedabout this, right? When I told you to up your game, I meant you should ask Lola out to dinner or something.” He shook his head, dumbfounded, pointing at the stump. “What’s she gonna do with that giant hunk of wood?”
“This isn’t just a hunk of wood.” I ran my fingers over the rugged silver bark. “See this?” His lip curled. Guess not. “This is Tasmanian blackwood. Beautiful timber. A hundred years old.”
“Yep. I believe it. It’s as grey and wrinkly as Old Ben Shepherd, and he’s pushing at least eighty.”
