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Walker hops out of my truck first and I follow him down the familiar dirt path.
The speakers are loud with Randy Travis, sounds of shouting and laughter rush over the fire behind Ledger’s house. Ledger and Lawson toss a football back and forth. Lottie and her friends Odelia and Ada are sitting near the fire and there’s a few other groups here, but none of them are people I’m familiar with enough to attempt conversation.
My eyes immediately scan for Felicity, and disappointment flares in my gut when I don’t see her standing by Lottie. It shouldn’t be a surprise; she texted me earlier that she’d show up later than usual. And by “later,” she usually means whenever she gets done helping Rowen lock up, or being distracted by a stray cat, or helping someone who didn’t even ask for help.
I pull up a chair beside Lottie, but Walker pushes it out of the way so he can sit next to her. Ada goes on and on about some kind of rare DVD she found at the thrift store this morning, and Odelia talks about the upcoming formal like it’s the event of the century. Ledger and Lawson get into a wrestling match because Ledger told Odelia that “she looked good in red.” The fire roars nearby, and even with all of that around me, as much as I tell myself I’m not checking for Felicity, I am. I’ve scanned every car that’s pulled in. Every nearby set of footsteps crunching the leaves. Every bout of laughter, not a single one being the hearty, full one that I’m so fond of.
Practically, I’m searching for her because Felicity tends to get lost at these parties. She…wanders. Doesn’t look where she’s going and trails off closer to the woods than where everyone else is. She forgets about time and then realizes she’s two miles away because she followed a dog down the street and now has no clue how to get back.
I found her once tracking a family of raccoons back to the dumpster on Miss Welch’s property; she wasn’t even close to the Welches’ street, and I still don’t know how she made it over there.
With each passing minute my palms itch, and I tug at the sleeves of my oil-stained hoodie.
I pull out my phone to text her just as my chair gets rocked forward. I turn back and it’s Ledger pushing it to ask me, “Want a drink?”
I shrug. “I’ll just grab a water.”
He takes out a water bottle and tosses it to me. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m not.” Lottie squints at me from one chair over, assessing, so I double down. “Seriously, I’m not. Just tired.”
Why does my voice sound like it’s calling me a liar? I’ve barely even said anything. If anyone is lying in this circle, it’s Ledger, who previously swore he was just joking about flirting with Lawson’s sister.
“Who has the ducks tonight?”
“Hm?”
“The ducks?” Walker asks as he moves his chair closer to Lottie, if that’s possible. “Who’s got them?”
Am I that pathetic about finding Felicity right now that I forgot about my own children? What kind of a father am I?
“Miller’s got them.”
“All seven?” Ada scoffs. “That sounds rough.”
“He’s used to it by now.”
Felicity picks up a lot of afternoon shifts at the shelter, and considering I’m usually working on big equipment that could put the ducks in danger, we have to have a solid babysitter for Duck Norris, Duckleberry Finn, Alfonzo, Henry, Howard, Hubert, and Bubbles—the duckling babies she had at the shelter for weeks that no one would take home before I made the executive decision they were ours. Felicity and I wrote a joint custody agreement on a spare napkin at Riley’s Tavern and signed it in blood (or with a Ticonderoga pencil but with the intentions of signing in blood).
We used to just take them to the shelter when she worked, but Rowen had a run-in with Duck Norris—he takes after his name—and now they’re not allowed back unless I’m there as well. Which means my uncle Miller gets a gaggle of ducks at least one night a week to follow him while he completes his errands. Sometimes Felicity’s aunt Riley watches them, too, but she said, and I quote, “The day they try to fly at me, I am done.”
“I kind of miss them,” Walker says.
Lottie swats at his elbow. “Do not subject us to watching them again.”
“I don’t know about the rest, but Bubbles was an awfully sweet girl.”
Normally, this stuff relaxes me; a blazing fire, a cold drink, casual chitchat with a bunch of people I’ve grown up with. There’s beer in one of the coolers and no one here to rag on us about underage drinking, so I could easily relax myself with one. But tonight I feel…on edge. Like the air pressure’s wrong. A massive knot burrowing too tight in my chest.
I imagine this is what jetlag feels like, though I’ve never personally traveled enough to know. Groggy, tired, and off, but also wired.
Hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans, I pretend to focus on the fire. The logs pop loudly, sending a hot wave along my shins. Ledger’s telling some story about nearly getting his hand caught in a cattle gate again this morning. There’s a joke in there somewhere and everyone laughs. I force a smile, my chest pulling tighter and tighter.
I try to look indifferent. I try to keep drinking my water. I try to not listen for the specific crunch of small, quick footsteps I know better than my own heartbeat.
Then…there it is.
Light, hurried, landing a little sideways like she’s always mid-laugh even when she doesn’t realize it. Even when she’s alone and has a slightly funny (usually not that funny) thought, she’s laughing at her own jokes.
