“Okay, yeah, sure. I, uh … I’ll go make sure the guest rooms are ready.” I turn around, making a beeline for the hallway.
“I think she’s going to the bunkhouse with Eden.”
I pause, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “Oh.”
“Yeah, Rosie is headed over there now to help her settle in.”
I want to ask why she wouldn’t just want to stay here. The bunkhouse is small compared to the main house.
I guess with Pops here, it would be challenging to have her and the boys around.
“Okay. Will you come sit with Pops so I can help her move in?”
“I think she only had time to grab a few essentials. Probably won’t be much stuff.”
“I made chili. I could take them the leftovers.”
“I think Rosie might be taking them part of our dinner.”
I stand there, feeling completely helpless and hating every second of it. I debate on calling Dallas myself and seeing what she needs, but Rosie and Dolly’s warning to stay away from her is still ringing in my mind.
“Sounds good. Let me know if she needs?—”
“I gotta go.” The line goes dead.
I grit my teeth, giving in to the urge to send a text to Dallas.
Duke
Hey. I heard about the fire. Are you okay? Are the boys okay? Do you need anything? I made chili for dinner.
I set it down on the counter and place my hands on the edge, gripping it tightly when I see the three little dots indicating that she’s typing something in our messages. Myheart rate hasn’t slowed down since Holden told me what happened.
The dots disappear. I watch the screen for five more minutes, but a message never comes through.
Pops distracts me when he tries to stand on his own. I go to attend to him, and my chest is tight for the rest of the evening.
11
DALLAS
“We’re fine, Mom. I’m working late hours, but it’s nice, getting to interact with other adults, you know?”
I’m balancing the phone between my shoulder and my cheek while I finish making the boys’ favorite meal—chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.
“Boys, dinner!” I call out.
They’re watchingSpirit: Stallion of the Cimarronon the TV because, sometimes, Mama just needs a little bit of quiet to make dinner and not play referee the entire twenty minutes.
“You’re working at a bar, Dallas. How can you possibly enjoy that more than staying at home with the twins?”
I take a sip of my pinot noir. I don’t think my mother realizes how condescending she sounds. My father has always taken excellent care of her, paid the bills, and never given her a shred of a reason to doubt that he will always come home at night.
She’s trying to be supportive of me during this time, butto her, it’s like supporting someone through the zombie apocalypse through the phone. She just hasn’t lived through it, so grasping the concept of how working in a sleazy bar is more pleasant than living with someone like Matt isn’t clicking for her.
And I’m glad. I’m thankful she has no idea what it’s like to be mentally and emotionally and sexually abused by your own husband until you’re so miserable that you’d rather get hit on by scumbags at two a.m. just to get a lousy tip than to ever be in a bed with him again.
“I miss being with the boys all the time of course, but?—”
