So I did.
Belinda was not part of any plan. She was a whirlwind.
And then it was just me and a baby and the sound of my own breath in the night, listening for hers and having to remember, over and over, that it wasn’t coming back.
I loved once in that way. All the way. No brakes, no guardrails. Look how that turned out.
Now Faith’s back here, all wide eyes and apologies and a ring-shaped dent on her finger, and my idiot heart wants to jump the fence again as if it didn’t learn a thing.
Not happening.
“Yo.” Clay snaps me back. “You planning on moving in under there or what?”
I scoot out from under the truck, brush snow and road grime off my jacket. “Axle’s fine. Steering’s fine. We’ll swap that front tire when it’s not frozen to the damn ground, but she’s good enough to get to town.”
Boone straightens from where he’s been checking along the back. “No leaks under here either. Nothing dripping on the snow except Nash’s dignity.”
Nash squints at him. “You trying to start something?”
“You trying to finish your chores, or you gonna flirt with frostbite?” Boone shoots back.
Clay snorts. “He’s just mad Dallas loves this truck more than him.”
“Truck doesn’t talk,” I say. “That’s a point in her favor.”
“Wow,” Nash says. “Hurtful.”
I ignore them and bang the hood shut.
“She’ll drive,” I say, more to myself than anyone. “Short trips. Slow speeds. It’ll be fine.”
Boone nods. “You gonna tell her?”
“Yeah.”
Nash leans an elbow on the fender. “Want us to stand behind you and hold cue cards? ‘Play it cool.’ ‘Don’t mention your feelings.’ ‘Please stop staring at her mouth.’”
I grab a snowball off the hood and nail him in the chest with it.
He wheezes. “Rude.”
“Y’all can put the chains away,” I say, heading for the house. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Clay calls after me, full of a grin. “We talking about the truck or the existential crisis?”
“Both,” Nash adds.
I lift a hand without looking back and flip them off.
By the time I climb the porch steps, my ears are burning from the cold and the blood rushing around in my head. I stomp my boots off, more to buy a second than to save Mom’s boards, and knock once on the open doorframe.
Faith’s at the kitchen table with Mom, hands wrapped around a mug. Rose’s sweater hangs loose on her, sleeves pushed up, hair braided over one shoulder. There’s a little line between her brows. She’s been concentrating too hard on pretending she’s fine.
Mom’s face is carefully neutral, the way it gets when she’s trying not to scare off a skittish colt. She glances at me, reads whatever’s on my face in half a second, and pats Faith’s hand.
“I’m gonna go check on the roast,” she says, even though there is no roast. “Y’all holler if you need anything.”
Translation:I’m giving you privacy, try not to ruin your whole life in the next five minutes.
