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“Forget my tone of voice, what are you doing with him? He’s a jerk!”
“Because he tells you things you don’t like hearing?” I step toward him. “He’s helped us, Jacob. Helped you.”
If anything, his jawline gets harder. “And now he’s helping himself to my mother.”
A gasp whooshes into my lungs. “Jacob William Carpenter!”
“Say my name all you want, Mom. It doesn’t change things.”
“Now look here, young man, not that it’s your business, but there is nothing—"
“Don’t deny it. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“You’re imagining things, but even if he—”
Jacob snorts. “I’m a guy, Mom. I know what I see. And worse, you looked at him the same way. I saw it.”
Yes, well…maybe. A swallow tightens my throat. A load of denials and explanations bubble to the surface.
He snorts, an ugly, scoffing sound. He shakes his head, his too-long, high-school hair shaking with it. “I can’t believe you. All this time…”
I freeze. “All what time?”
“You finally decide to get normal—and you pickhim?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”As if I don’t know.
There’s more head-shaking as he spins toward his bedroom.
“Get back in here, Jacob.”
He jerks his arm with a backward flap of his hand and slams the door in his wake.
I hate fighting with my son. This is a brand new season in our lives, yet I’m already weary of it. Wearyfromit. And the anger—what do I do with that?
I sink onto the sofa. The old cushion warps under my weight. When Jacob sits here, I swear the thing looks about to buckle.
I stare up at the ceiling fan that’s been collecting dust while I wasn’t watching. This weekend, for the first time in ages, I’ll have two full days off while Charlie closes for much-needed repairs. Guess I know what I’ll be doing, lucky me.
Unlucky me, however, will miss yet another of my only child’s games, not that I’m so sure he even wants me there these days.
Tears make a run for it behind my eyes. I try to remember I’m not alone in this parenting thing. God sees me. He hears my prayers—but Jacob should have a dad in the stands, losing his mind over bad calls and coaching from the sidelines. At least a mother there to wear a t-shirt with his jersey number and to cheer him on. Will he look back one day and be sad no one was there for him?
One thing I know: If my son is messed up, it’s on me.
Chapter 11
John
Traffic stinks, especially for this early in the day. Yesterday kicked a dent into my productivity, so five this morning saw me hitting the road. There’s a stack on my desk that waits to be caught up on, including a list of tasks that could be delegated. Some might sayshouldbe.
Eh, the rest of the folks have families.
A yawn commandeers my mouth. All the usual trouble spots are doing their thing, and now a stupid wreck somewhere at the front of this herd of taillights is making matters worse.
I free a groan, but catch my hand just shy of my head. It’s too early in the day to make a mess of my hair.
I put on the brake-hold and reach for my coffee. Leaning into the glass, I catch my first glimpse of blue and red a good distance ahead. Behind, sirens whine. I tamp down a word. None of us are going anywhere anytime soon.
