Page 89 of Sterling Stone

“Grandma Trudy says you’re like the wind, always blowing around, never able to stay in one place for too long.”

Trudy’s assessment is accurate.

But what happens when the wind stops? Trudy might say it always starts up again. Never still. Never truly settled.

What if I want the wind to stop blowing, though? Do I need cement feet? Or do I just need to stop giving in to the gust? Do I need to build a wall, and paint it?

The irony isn’t lost on me. How I decorate permanent places, making my mark on them.

But I always leave. Leave my art behind when I rush away to the next project. The next adventure. In the end, I’m so much like my mother that the realization sends panicked recognition along my nerves.

Maybe for once I need to stay. Need to make a longer-lasting impression.

For Simon. For me.

I need to decorate this fragile wall between us so he sees I can be steady.

I hold my gaze on his young face, remembering how I felt at his age. The abandonment that led to fear that no one would ever really want me. No one would ask me to stay.

I could stay for Simon. And Trudy. And even Stone, because I wasn’t ready to let go of any of them.

“Grandma Trudy is rarely wrong. But sometimes, the wind can blow, and things stay in place. I’d like to be one of those things.”

Simon has no idea how badly I’d like to stick in one place.

“Like a flagpole?”

I blink, uncertain what he means.

“The wind blows and a flag flaps around, holding onto the pole for dear life.” He waves his hand like flimsy material battling the movement of the weather.

I chuckle softly. “I guess so. And I might need to hold on tight to someone to keep me in place.” Or someone needs to hold onto me.

Suddenly, Simon is sitting upright again, and his thin arms wrap around me, holding onto me.

At first, I don’t respond, so startled, so befuddled by the sudden embrace. Simon and I don’t have that kind of relationship. I adore Simon, but we don’t hug.

But this . . . him clinging to me, has me eventually responding with an equally tight hold on him. Breathing in his apple-scented shampoo, I smooth a hand down his thin back and embrace the moment.

“I can be your flagpole, Aunt Taxi.”

Dang it. This kid. The back of my eyes burn, and my vision blurs.

“When you flap, I’ll hold,” he says.

A tear slips free, dripping from the corner of my eye and rolling over my cheek.

“You hold tight, kiddo.” And I’ll hold you right back.

Pressing a kiss to the side of Simon’s head, I linger another second before pulling back.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” I ask, knowing he has school tomorrow.

Simon used to play sick to get out of going to school. Judd thought he might be bored because he’s so smart. This year, Simon is in some accelerated classes, and the difference makes him more eager to attend. He’s going for perfect attendance this year.

Simon nods and slowly lowers back to his pillow.

“I’ll stay right here another minute.” Or ten.