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Ronan’s words came back to haunt me with their finality. Sometimes it’s better—safer—to walk away.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s all.”
Bibi was discharged a few hours later with a new prescription and a web address for a site that sold medical compression socks to keep the blood from pooling in her legs. The rain had begun again as I drove us home.
I got Bibi set up on the couch, ordered her the socks, and went back out to the pharmacy. Then I called Aunt Bertie, filled her in, and reassured her Bibi was okay.
“If you need anything, Shiloh, you tell us, okay?” Bertie had said. I could hear the subtext—Bibi was eighty years old. We were slowly morphing from her taking care of me to me taking care of her.
After a few hours of hovering, Bibi shooed me away with good-natured teasing and a kiss. I went to the shed in our backyard. The rain had been coming down pretty hard and yet not one leak. Ronan’s craftsmanship was like him—solid and strong.
This is my refuge, I thought as I worked. This is what will save me. Building a future that is just mine. And nothing Mama says—or doesn’t say—can take it away from me.
I had Etsy orders backing up and whatever Ronan and I had started was officially over, but I let my hands reach for what they wanted. I fell into my work, not surprised that it was taking the shape of something masculine. A pendant I knew wasn’t going in my shop.
Around one in the afternoon, a text came in on my phone, pulling me out of the zone. I smiled at the short, straight-to-the-point text.
Bibi?
She’s good, I typed back. Home.
Good.
I bit my lip. Thank you for last night.
No answer. And as the minutes stretched into days, I knew there wouldn’t be.
Part II
Chapter Fifteen
March
“Happy birthday, dear Rowww-nennn,” Holden belted in an off-key tenor. He stood in front of the bonfire at the Shack, arms spread. Miller sat to my right, accompanying him on his guitar and laughing his ass off. “Happy birthday, tooo…yoooooo.”
Miller strummed a flourish and Holden bowed deep, sweeping his long coat behind him.
I gave a slow clap. “That was…”
“Miraculous?” Holden offered as he sat down hard in his beach chair. “Divine? Inspired?”
“I was going to say like a geriatric cat in heat.”
Holden pretended to be offended. “Jeez, tough crowd.”
“Why are you singing instead of him?” I pointed at Miller.
Miller toyed with the frets on his guitar. “Maybe later.”
Holden rolled his eyes. “Ever so modest, our Stratton. The musical program for the evening has only just begun.”
I hoped so but didn’t push it. Miller had crazy talent. Listening to him made everything seem better, even if the song was a sad one. Which it usually was. But he wasn’t a show-off. He played when he felt like it.
“I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s eat.”
We had a strict, unspoken “no gifts” policy when it came to birthdays and Christmas. Miller and I were broke as shit, while Holden could buy up an entire mall’s worth of stuff if we let him. Only food and beer for celebrations, and Holden could go crazy. It didn’t feel as weird if the spread was for all of us.
That night, he brought hot Italian sandwiches, sides of pasta, and vegetables we’d probably skip. Miller provided pretzels and chips. I brought the beer.
