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Mr. Newman glances at my dad quickly. “It’s covered,” he says.
I look at my dad, but he’s looking down at his lap.
“Your first step is to gather character witnesses, which is what she’ll be doing. Anyone you can find who will vouch for you. We need all the help we can get,” Mr. Newman says.
“What are my chances here? Be honest. Please.”
“We need time, Joshua. We all need to be patient. It could take weeks—months even—before a court date is set.”
“And in the meantime, what happens to Tommy?”
“I’ve called her lawyers already. Nothing changes in the meantime. Natalie doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her case.”
Mom huffs out a breath. “The little bitch,” she whispers.
My eyes widen. So do Jack’s. My dad doesn’t seem surprised at all.
Then Jack chuckles. “Remind me not to put your mom on the stand.”
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Weeks pass while Jack’s law firm gathers the evidence and I gather character witnesses. The only ones I have are the same people who I’d tried to push away the night that started all of this; Chazarae, Hunter, Chloe, Rob and Kim.
I make the most of every day—between work and meeting with the lawyers, I spend every waking second loving the absolute crap out of my kid. Then, one night—out of the blue—I get a text.
From her.
Becca: SK8F8 in two days.
I hold my breath and stare down at my phone, my heart thumping a thousand miles a second. Endless scattered thoughts race through my mind while I try to come up with a response.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
I miss you.
I need you.
Instead, my fingers skim the screen quickly and come up with the only thing I feel safe enough to send.
Joshua: I’ll go if you go.
Seconds, minutes, hours pass while I grip my phone tight, waiting for her to respond. Finally, it comes.
Becca: If I go, you talk. I listen.
Joshua: Anything.
Becca: Okay.
33
-Becca-
break
breɪk/
verb
separate into pieces as a result of a blow, shock, or strain.
Josh freezes mid-step when he sees me waiting by his still half beaten truck the morning of SK8F8. I came home, or at least the closest thing I have to a home, yesterday when he was at work. I didn’t tell him I was there. I asked Grams not to tell him either—but I knew she wouldn’t. She wasn’t happy about me being here, neither were the nurses—apart from Nurse Linda—at the psych hospital. Or, as they liked to call themselves, “the home for personal development.”
He clears his throat, his eyes on mine, and his lips pulling to a half smile. I look away because it’s already started—the stirring of old feelings that I don’t want to feel.
I get into his truck the second he unlocks it and put on my seat belt, my gaze on the dash in front of me. After getting in, he starts the engine, but he doesn’t do anything else. I sit up a little higher, preparing for what he’s about to say. “Hey,” he says, his voice so low I almost don’t hear it.
I don’t respond. I wasn’t kidding when I told him that I’d go if he talked and I listened. Apart from not actually being physically able to speak, I don’t have anything to say to him. At least nothing I want to share.
He exhales loudly and changes gear, then reverses out the driveway.
For the entire two-hour drive to the SK8F8 grounds we sit in silence. It’s not until he finds a spot and parks that he turns to me. For seconds, he just looks at me. I keep looking at the dash. Then he shifts, moving closer to me and I flinch, pressing my side against the door. He curses under his breath before reaching into the back seat and placing a black backpack between us.
“It’s yours,” he tells me.
I settle the thumping of my heart before turning to him, but he’s looking down at his hands, his jaw set.
Confused, I unzip the bag and peer inside, and then I close it quickly and shove it back toward him, my heart hammering again.
He turns to me slowly, and if beauty could be found in someone’s frown, it would be his.
“I can’t,” I mouth.
“Please, Becs. I need you to have it. I tried to get yours back because I know it’s sentimental but the pawnshop had already sold it and this is everything you had, just updated I guess…” he trails off, his eyes on mine again.
My chest heaves, my breaths loud.
“I charged it all up for you. I got you the lens you wanted, too. The one you said was good for action shots. And I know you probably won’t use it after today but…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying. I just need you to have it because…” He sucks in a breath. “Because I know what it’s like to sacrifice something you love. And you sacrificed it for me. I can’t live with myself, knowing that I can at least take away some of that loss for you. Besides, you’re going to need one in St. Louis, right?”
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I take the camera because I know he won’t move on unless I do and I walk beside him as he makes his way to the registration area. “Joshua Warden,” he tells the younger guy at the desk, and as soon as his name is said all three guys at the desk as well as two in the lines beside him all turn to him.
“The prodigal son returns,” the guy practically sings. “We didn’t believe it when we saw your name.”
