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el of a shotgun.
Today is only different in that his father sits on a broken-down couch, on his broken-down porch, that’s barely attached to his broken-down house. He’s sipping a bottle of beer, a cigarette hanging from his lips, a shotgun slung across his lap. His eyes are trained on me, waiting, wishing—hoping?—I’ll cross the fence line. The boy releases my hand and starts off toward his father before turning back with a crooked smile and a salute. I wonder if his old man taught him that? Probably the only positive behavior he’s taught him.
I watch him walk up onto the bowed and rotting porch and skip past his father through a half-hung screen door. I wonder if I’ll see him tomorrow. I wonder what will become of him. I wonder if he’ll ever make it out of here. I’d like to think so. I’d like to believe that he has a fair shot.
His father trains the gun on me and fake fires, letting the barrel float up toward the sky. He laughs maniacally, slapping his hand on his thigh, as dust flies from his filthy pants.
The boy comes out onto the porch and stares at his dad. He laughs in echo, just because it seems like the right thing to do. It’s a beautiful sort of madness, thinking…or rather believing…that anything will ever change.
Chapter Nine
Eve straightens my bowtie. “You know I hate these things.”
“It’s good for you,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You need to get out of here every now and again.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Don’t pout, love.” She pulls tautly on my collar, adjusting the tie’s position, temporarily cutting off my oxygen supply. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Tilting her head in one direction and then another, she checks her work. “I want you to go and have fun.”
“There’s nothing about this that I find fun.”
“Oh, come on.” Taking me by the shoulders, she turns me so that I face the mirror. “You’re getting an award, not going to a funeral. Would it really kill you to show a little appreciation?”
“It might.”
“It’s dinner, George. A fancy dinner. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“I’d manage better if you’d come along.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m not feeling—”
“Your head. I know. You’ve said it a thousand times.”
“You don’t have to sound so bitter. When’s the last time you had a migraine?”
I glance down at my watch. “About ninety minutes from now.”
She swats at me and I duck. “I swear you act like you’re eighty-nine, not fifty-nine.”
“Black tie events make me feel eighty-nine.”
“Just go. Act gracious. Don’t complain. Then come home,” she tells me with a smile. “I promise to make it worth your while.”
The car picks me up at six sharp. I’ve asked Liam along, God knows why, except for the fact that apparently Eve is God, because she suggested it.
I couldn’t exactly say no, seeing that she said it right in front of him, and he was also invited by the Writer’s Guild.
So here we are sharing the town car the coordinators sent. Here we are acting like proper friends. I guess this is why he takes the liberty to test my limits.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the boys.”
Staring out the window, it never ceases to amaze me how much things can change when you aren’t looking. “The who?”
“Your children.”
The landscape fades into a mirage, blurred together and out of focus. My throat goes dry. Not just out of shock but also because it’s been so long since those words were used in the same sentence. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
