Chapter Fourteen
Derby
The problem with giving a woman keys is that she might use them.
I know that’s the damn point.
I know it because I said it. Stood in my driveway with Wildcat’s grease still on the truck and put those keys right in Amelia’s hand like I was some enlightened bastard who understood freedom, choice, and all the other words Sophie likes to throw at men until we accidentally grow.
Only way staying means anything.
Sounded good when I said it.
Noble, even.
By noon, I hate myself for being noble.
Amelia stands in my kitchen with those keys in her hand, hair pulled back, jeans on, one of her own shirts tucked crooked at the waist, and the look of a woman trying to convince herself she is brave enough for a grocery run.
Not a club run.
Not a war.
Not even the Fire Pit.
A damn grocery run.
“I need to go,” she says.
My first answer is no.
It gets all the way to my tongue before I bite it down hard enough to taste blood.
She sees it anyway.
Of course she does.
Her chin lifts, and there is that spark in her again. Fear wearing boots. “You gave me the keys.”
“I remember.”
“Then I’m using them.”
“I see that.”
“You’re doing that thing with your jaw.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re chewing on all the orders you want to give me.”
August, sitting at the table with Blue Rex and a bowl of cereal that is mostly marshmallows because my household standards have collapsed, looks up. “Derby chews orders?”
“No,” I say.
Amelia says, “Yes.”
He considers that. “Do they taste bad?”
“Terrible,” I mutter.
Amelia’s mouth twitches, but she doesn’t soften enough to let me off the hook. She has one hand wrapped around the truck keys like she expects me to ask for them back.
I would rather chew glass.
I also want to take them, lock the door, put her and August in the safest room in the house, and go hunting until every person who has made her scared to drive into town regrets the day their mothers made poor decisions.
Progress is hell.
“I need a few things,” she says. “For August. For me. With my money.”
I look at the twenty-seven-dollar life she refuses to let anyone else own.
“You can use club money.”
“No.”
“My money.”
“No.”
“Amelia.”
“No.” Her voice sharpens, then she reins it back like she is afraid of taking up too much room. That pisses me off on her behalf. “I need one errand that belongs to me. I need to know I can leave and come back.”
There it is.
The line that makes my ribs hurt.
Leave and come back.
Easy thing for some people.
Not for me.
People leave. That part I know. Women with bruised hearts. Mothers who send boys away because choosing right costs too much. Dogs who get old and go quiet in the grass while you hold their head and lie to them about being okay. Brothers who die. Fathers who were never yours to keep.
People leave.
Coming back is the part I never learned to trust.
I look at her hand around those keys.
Then at August.
The kid is watching us with too-big eyes over his spoon, because children may not know all the words, but they damn sure know when adults are arguing about fear.
I exhale through my nose.
“Fine.”
Amelia blinks. “Fine?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to argue?”
“I just did it silently. Saved time.”
Her mouth curves. “Very mature.”
“Don’t spread rumors.”
She looks at me for another second, suspicious of easy permission because nothing in her life has taught her trust comes without a hook.
Then she nods. “I’ll be quick.”
“No.”
Her shoulders tense.
I hold up one hand. “Not no like that. No as in don’t rush because of me. Do what you need to do.”
Something flickers in her face.
Not trust.
Something smaller. A door cracking.
“Okay,” she says.
I reach for my cut on the chair.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
“Putting my cut on.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not standing around in my kitchen half-dressed like a house husband in a hostage situation.”
“You were coming with me.”
“Thought about it.”
“Derby.”
“I said thought.”
“And?”
“And I’m not.” Each word feels like pulling barbed wire out of my own skin. “You said alone.”
“I did.”
“So go alone.”
August looks between us. “Can I go?”
“No,” we both say.
He sighs. “Rude.”
Amelia turns to him, guilt already creeping into her eyes. “I won’t be long.”
“Are you getting cereal?”
“Yes.”
“The marshmallow kind?”
“You already have the marshmallow kind.”
“We need backup.”
I point my coffee mug at him. “Kid understands supplies.”
Amelia gives me a look. “You are not helping.”
“Rarely do.”
August slides down from his chair and runs to her. She crouches immediately, and he wraps his arms around her neck. She closes her eyes when she hugs him back. Every time she leaves him, even for a grocery store, something in her breaks and rebuilds badly.
“I’m coming back,” she whispers.
Not to him only.
To herself.
To me.
I look away.
There are some things a man should not watch too closely unless he is ready to be changed by them.
Too late, probably.
August pulls back. “Get cheese.”
“For what?”
“Derby burns pancakes, so we need grilled cheese.”
I snort. “Betrayal.”
“You burned them black.”
“They were misunderstood.”
Amelia laughs softly and kisses his forehead. “I’ll get cheese.”
“And dinosaur gummies if they have them.”
“No promises.”
He squints. “That means probably no.”
“It means don’t start a list after I already said yes to cheese.”
He looks at me for backup.
I lift both hands. “I’m staying out of maternal negotiations.”
“Coward,” he says.
Amelia gasps. “August.”
I point at the kid. “He used it correctly.”
“Don’t encourage him.”
“He’s gifted.”
August grins.
Amelia stands and grips the keys tighter. “I’ll be back.”
I nod. “I know.”
The lie tastes like rust.
She hears it anyway.
Her eyes soften for half a second, and damn her, that makes it worse.
Then she walks out.
I follow to the porch because I’m still me.
She looks back when she reaches the truck. “You’re not following me?”
“No.”
“You’re standing on the porch.”
“Porches are for standing.”
“Derby.”
“I ain’t following.”
She studies me like she is trying to decide if I’m a liar.
I deserve that.
Finally, she climbs into the truck. It starts on the second try, which is basically a miracle and proof Wildcat has witchcraft in his hands. Amelia’s shoulders lift with the sound. She backs out slow, checks the mirrors twice, then drives down the gravel.
I stand on the porch until the truck disappears around the curve.
Then I keep standing.
The air feels wrong without her in the driveway.
That is stupid.
I have known this woman less time than some hangovers. My house was mine three days ago. Quiet. Ugly. Functional. Now there is cereal in the cabinet, dinosaur court in the living room, little socks in the laundry, and a woman driving away with my pulse hooked to her bumper.
Behind me, August says, “Are you sad?”
I turn.
He stands in the open doorway with Blue Rex under one arm, spoon in the other, milk on his chin.
“No.”
“You look sad.”
“I look mean.”
“Mean can be sad.”
Hell.
Who gave this kid a philosophy degree?
I step inside and shut the door. “Finish your cereal.”
“Can we watch Widowmaker?”
“Watch her do what?”
“Be loud.”
“No.”
“You said later.”
“It’s later-adjacent.”
“That means no.”
“Correct.”
He sighs like I’m the difficult one and returns to his cereal.
I last four minutes.
Four.
I check the front window.
Empty road.
I check my phone.
No message.
I check the back door.
Locked.
I check the front again.
Still empty.
I check the security camera feed Wildcat set up on my phone, which used to be for thieves and rival clubs and is now apparently for making sure a woman can buy cheese without me developing a brain bleed.
August sits at the table eating cereal and watching me with open judgment.
“You’re not good at waiting,” he says.
“I’m excellent at waiting.”
“You keep walking.”
“That’s pacing. Very advanced waiting.”
He nods like he is filing that away.
Dangerous child.
I make coffee I don’t need. Burn my tongue. Curse in my head because apparently I’m now censoring myself for a five-year-old who called me a coward before lunch.
The kid finishes cereal, carries his bowl to the sink without being asked, and sets it there carefully.
Amelia did that.
Whatever else Jeremy tried to ruin, she gave the boy manners, humor, and a backbone made out of bendy little kid bones.
“You want to work on the courthouse?” I ask.
His eyes light. “Yes.”
Good.
A project.
Men need projects. Boys too. Keeps the brain from chewing its own leg off.
We settle on the living room floor, which is now mostly court, cave, garage, and one blanket tunnel August insists is a witness hallway.
Blue Rex is the judge. A smaller green dinosaur, newly acquired from God knows which woman’s supply bag, is the lawyer.
My upside-down boot remains government property.
“This thing needs a door,” I tell him.
“It’s a courthouse.”
“Courthouses got doors.”
“This one has a mouth.”
I look at the blanket opening. “That’s disturbing.”
“Bad guys go in there.”
“What comes out?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If Blue Rex says guilty.”
I nod slowly. “Blue Rex is harsh but fair.”
August smiles.
We build a door out of cereal boxes and tape. I cut the tape because August gets it stuck to his fingers and then to Blue Rex and then to my arm hair. He laughs so hard at my reaction that he falls over sideways.
I pretend to be offended.
Mostly, I’m trying not to notice how good that laugh sounds in my house.
After a while, he goes quiet.
Not sleepy quiet.
Thinking quiet.
I brace before he even opens his mouth.
“Are you fake Mama’s boyfriend?”
There it is.
I stare at a cereal box like it contains legal counsel.
“That’s complicated.”
August looks at me.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
“Grown-ups say complicated when they’re lying.”
I cough once. “Yeah. They do.”
“So?”
“So.” I set the tape down. “Your mama and me are pretending some things so Jeremy leaves her alone.”
“Because Jeremy is bad?”