Page 81 of Not Mine to Rescue

“But I’m broke. Every cent goes into this farm, the animals, the rescue. Or, my bikes. I can’t even buy you flowers for things like Valentine’s Day or anniversaries, or⁠—”

“I don’t need you to buy me flowers. I can buy my own.”

He laughed quietly. “There’s a song about that.”

“Damn straight there is. I want someone who listens. I want… well… touch. Kindness.” Sex. I didn’t say it because my brain whispered that he probably heard that often.

“Right now, it’s a bit difficult to give that.”

My heart recoiled. “Why?”

“I could say a bunch of bullshit about the farm keeping me busy, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I want all that, too. I… need someone who isn’t taking from me all that time. Fuck. That’s about as wussy as you can get, right?”

“No. Admitting you want to be loved is far braver than any man I’ve ever known. Except maybe my dad. He’s one in a million.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes, Mom, too. She’s the opposite. Alway running things, always doing rather than stopping and hugging. Dad made up for that for her. I’m pretty sure they worked out a plan to work with each others’ strengths.” For some reason, I thought that was why Jim and I worked. Until we didn’t.

Unaware of my thoughts, Wombat said, “They sound cool.”

A note echoed in his voice. It was sad and lonely. “What about your parents?”

“They’re fuck-ups. That’s where I learned it from.”

“Hardly.”

“Wanna bet? Age thirteen, caught dealing pot. That’s two years before my dad went to juvie for his dealing. Mom? Rehab at age eighteen. Right before she got pregnant with me. Or maybe she was pregnant with me and Pop-pop put his foot down and signed her in. I don’t know. Either way, got sober, popped me out, and went right back to dropping acid and doing shrooms.”

“Is your grandfather still alive?”

“Died. I was two months from turning seventeen. I took my GED so I could sign the paperwork for Lemon’s custody, otherwise they’d ship her off to Oregon and that fucking commune… she’d have been pregnant in two weeks. They’re weird.”

“You said you have a younger sister?”

“Hal. She’s dressing and acting like a boy so no one touches her.”

My brain started spinning. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen. She was a whoops baby. Mom hadn’t planned on having another kid.”

I tucked my reaction to that into a box so I could focus on Wombat instead. “Have you tried for custody?”

“Some. It’s difficult with her so far away. I can’t prove any abuse. Hal filed for a court attorney there. That’s when Mom and Dad got the house away from the community. She’s doing okay on her own so far.”

“She lives by herself?” My loud voice startled Molly. I soothed her as much as I could.

“Naw. Dad’s with her… most of the time.”

His silence was too loud. The situation did not sound good. “And your mom?”

“Babe. Don’t go there.”

He’d “babed” me again, knowing I didn’t like it. It proved how raw his pain was that he’d forgotten. “I won’t, okay? And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault she’s an addict.”

Oh. “Is your father?”