Page 95 of Loving at 40

“I didn’t know if it would be a hard topic to discuss.” I tilt my head, still not understanding her, and she peers up at me to clarify. “Considering your line of work . . . I didn’t know how you’d feel talking about drugs.”

“’Locks, I was an officer of the law, seeking out those dealing drugs. I’d say that meant I was against them.”

She shrugs, which unsettles me a bit.

“Did you think I partook in them? Got hooked on them? Approved of them?” I’d already told her about that time I was pulled over. I didn’t get hooked, following that officer’s suggestion. And while I’d occasionally been high, it was so few and far between then and now, it was like it never happened.

“I didn’t know how deep you went. Maybe you saw an advantage to them. The money. The wealth.”

“The most precious thing is sitting right here.” I tighten my arm around her and press a kiss to her hair. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, ’Locks. Priceless. But I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Nothing is a hard topic anymore. The interesting thing about most drug cartels is the people at the top rarely do drugs themselves, so while there was access, I didn’t partake.” While I’d just admitted no topic was off-limits, I don’t know if exposing all that happened with Vi is in my best interest. I’m working on building a future with Jenna, not recalling the past, but I’ll give her what she asks for. “I’ve become partial to bayberry candles, the scent of crayons, and this right here.” Her in my arms. I squeeze her again.

She tips up and presses her mouth to my lips, and thankfully, the discussion passes from unwarranted concerns to the connection of our bodies as we make love on her couch before heading to bed together.

+ + +

Thanksgiving arrives without much fanfare, and it’s just how I’d like to spend the holiday—only us. Jenna and I fumble our way around cooking a turkey. She makes a pie with the girls. We laugh. We drink wine. We play games with our princesses. For the first time in a long time, I’m grateful for all I have. I’m thankful to be alive and have this woman in my life, sharing heartbeats with me. And I’m happy with two little girls who welcome me into their home.

Be home, Ben said. I think I get it.

At Jenna’s gentle prodding, I call my sister. She knows I’m here either from Jenna or Mason, but I haven’t contacted her myself.

“Archer.” She exhales my name. Is that relief in her voice?

“Just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too.”

A heavy pause fills the phone. I’m not good at this part, filling in the silence.

“I was wondering if I could come see you and the kids at Christmas.” My heart hammers. Asking is so difficult. “Maybe we could talk then?”

“Of course, Archer. This is your home.” Jenna is my home, but I know what Anna means. Lakeside Cottage will always be home as well. She, as well as my nieces and nephews, are my family.

“Anna . . .” I swallow around a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

A quiet sound fills the line. Is she crying? Dammit, I don’t want to make her cry. I’m calling to wish her well on a holiday.

“Don’t disappear again. Please.” Her quiet tone tears my heart.

“No more disappearing. I’m here to stay.”

“Really?” Hope floats in her voice through the wet noise of tears.

“Really.” I promise. Home is where I belong now.

+ + +

Jenna’s student had been suspended for ten days before I could meet with him, which puts us after the Thanksgiving break. Don’t schools know suspending kids only leads to more trouble? Their freedom doesn’t give them time to ruminate on their crimes but act as rebellious as they already are. I’d been warned he might be resistant and possibly even obstinate to the mentor program. I’d dealt with some seriously messed-up people, though, and I thought I could handle a sixteen-year-old.

“What’s up?” I ask, finding the sullen teen tipped back in a plastic chair, reminding me of several belligerent arrestees I’ve interviewed. His hair is long and stringy, and the scruff on his face suggests he’s more boy than man. He wears a short black jacket, black jeans with more rips than fabric, and a black tee. The room we sit in reminds me of a closet. It isn’t overly friendly or inviting, and I’d like to bust him out of here because it’s just too stuffy. I’m told most mentors meet with their students in the library, but this kid has special circumstances. I’d been escorted to the room and was told someone would come pick me up when our session was over.

The kid doesn’t respond to me, gazing down at his lap. His half-mast eyes concern me he’s high, but he has a drug test at the start of each school day. He’s also in a mandatory rehabilitation program.

I hold out a hand to introduce myself, but he doesn’t take the offer or give up his name although I already know it.

Brad Collins

When he still doesn’t speak, I shift in my seat. “Nice office you have here.” I look around the boxy, cinder block space. A round table and three chairs fill the tight room. If the kid wanted to crack a smile, he’s quick to fight it by twisting his lips into a sour expression.