Page 7 of Owl’s Cherished Mate

I got in and pulled away from the curb before I said something to that kid I’d regret.

The first five minutes of the drive were dead silent. Lawson stared out the window with his jaw locked and his arms crossed over his chest, stinking like weed.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

“Doing what? Hanging out with friends?”

“They’re not your friends.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing.” He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made my chest ache. It was fury, sure, but underneath it was something rawer. “You don’t know Cade. You don’t know Darren. You just decided they’re bad because of Dad, and that’s not fair.”

“It’s not about Dad⁠—”

“It’s always about Dad!” His voice filled the car. “Everything is about Dad. You came back because of Dad. You watch me like a prison guard because of Dad, because you think I’m turning into him.”

The words hit me like a slap.

“That’s not why,” I managed.

“Then why?”

Because you come home smelling like weed. Because you won’t tell me where you go or who you’re with, and the only name that keeps coming up is connected to the man who helped put our father in prison.

I couldn’t say any of that without proving his point.

“Because I’m worried about you,” I said instead.

“I don’t need you to worry about me.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“And you’re not my mom.”

The words landed heavy and sharp-edged. He was right. I wasn’t his mom. Our mom had packed a bag when I was his age and Lawson was six and walked out the front door without looking back. I’d stepped into that gap because someone had to, but stepping into it didn’t make it mine. Not really. Not in the way that mattered to a kid.

“Darren and Cade are the only ones who didn’t leave,” Lawson said, quieter now. The anger had drained out of his voice, leaving something worse behind. Sadness. “Mom left. Dad’s gone. You left.”

“I came back.”

“Only because you had to.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t come back for him, not in the way I should have. I’d come back because there was no other option. Because the alternative was foster care, and I couldn’t live with that. But the reason I’d left in the first place? That had been for me. I’d chosen myself, and he’d been the one left standing in the driveway watching me leave.

The guilt of that sat on my chest like a cinder block.

We pulled into our driveway, and Lawson was out of the car before I’d even shifted into park. He went straight inside. I sat in the car with the engine off and my forehead pressed against the steering wheel instead of following after him.

What was I supposed to do here?

The question followed me into the next day. It sat with me through my shift at the Grill, where I smiled at customers and refilled glasses of sweet tea and pretended everything was fine. It rode with me to the library that afternoon, where I set up at my corner table and opened my laptop like I had any hope of concentrating.

I didn’t.

Lawson hadn’t spoken to me this morning. He’d eaten cereal for breakfast, put his bowl in the sink, and left for school without a word. I’d checked the tracking app from the Grill during my lunch shift—he was at school, or at least his phone was—and tried to feel relieved instead of pathetic.