27. Cracks in the armor
CRACKS IN THE ARMOR
SENIOR YEAR
B y the time they reached the Beaumont Boudin Festival, Spring was already glowing.
She moved through the grounds like muscle memory had taken over – laughing too loud, pointing out booths that had been there since she was a kid.
The air smelled like smoke, and spice, and oil popping hot against cast iron.
Zydeco music spilled from somewhere near the stage, and people danced without worrying who was watching.
Spring was home.
Preston smiled, genuinely happy to see it. But after a while, the attention started to press in.
Someone recognized him.
“Hey, aren’t you the guy from the Stevie Wonder clip?”
Then another. A group of kids asked for a picture. An older woman clutched her chest and told him his voice reminded her of church. It was all love – but it stacked up fast.
Spring noticed the tension in his shoulders before he could say anything. “You wanna walk?” she asked casually, like she was offering him water instead of an escape.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Just for a second.”
She squeezed his hand. “Go. I’ll be right here.”
He stepped away, letting the noise fall behind him, moving toward the edge of the fairgrounds where the lights dimmed and the crowd was thinner.
Since he’d gone viral, it was hard to escape public settings. He enjoyed it, but it was fast.
He walked a distance away until the wind was the only thing that he could hear.
That’s when he spotted someone familiar.
Is that… Mr. Ellison?
Spring’s dad stood near a row of food trucks, half-hidden in shadow, talking to a dark-skinned woman Preston didn’t recognize. They were close – too close for casual conversation. The kind of closeness that came with familiarity.
They weren’t touching, but they weren’t not touching either.
Preston slowed his steps without realizing.
The woman leaned in, saying something that made Spring’s dad smile intimately.
A flicker of discomfort passed through Preston. He didn’t know why yet. He just knew it didn’t feel like nothing.
Then Spring’s dad glanced up.
Their eyes met – or at least Preston thought they did.
The man stiffened immediately. His posture changed. Whatever ease had been there vanished.
He said something sharp to the woman, took her arm – not roughly, but decisively – and turned away, steering her out of sight toward the parking lot.
Preston stood there longer than he’d meant to.
His chest felt tight, not with suspicion exactly – more like confusion.
What just happened here?
He told himself it was none of his business. He could hear Mack and his mom in his head. ‘Adults have lives.’ Beaumont was small. People ran into people.
Still…
When he turned back toward the festival, Spring was waving at him, smiling, holding up two paper trays loaded with food like trophies.
“I was about to send a search party,” she teased.
He forced a smile. “I…got turned around.”
She knew there was more to it, but she didn’t press. She never did.
As they walked back into the noise together, Preston glanced once more toward the edge of the fairgrounds, thinking about what he’d just seen.
He had to have seen me? Right?
Something had shifted. Not enough to name. Just enough to remember. He wasn’t sure what he was processing. Spring hadn’t been here in a while, and he was determined to make sure she had a good time, so he stuffed it down inside of himself.
But after they’d enjoyed all the festival had to offer, and they were driving back toward Houston with the windows cracked, the thoughts crept back into his head.
Preston glanced over at his passenger. Spring had her forehead against the window, watching the night roll by.
“Your dad ever… date?” he asked, keeping his voice light, casual, like it was nothing.
“Date? All my dad does is work. It’s why I knew we could come up here; he’d just be at the office.”
“So, he works here… and today is Thursday, so this is the day he’s normally late, right?”
She turned to him slowly. “Yeah… where is that coming from?”
He shrugged. “Just asking.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You never ‘just ask’.”
He smiled faintly. “Fair.”
She faced forward again, jaw tight. The silence stretched, dense now. “Turn here,” she said suddenly.
He checked their surroundings and slowed, easing onto a narrow road he didn’t recognize. Trees closed in fast, headlights cutting a thin tunnel through the dark.
They drove another minute before she said, “Stop.”
He pulled over instinctively.
They sat idle, crickets filled the space between them.
Spring unbuckled and stepped out. Preston followed, unsure but attentive.
She stood a few feet ahead, arms crossed tightly around herself. “This is where it happened.”
He didn’t ask. He already knew.
“My mom,” she continued. “Drunk driver. Hit her head-on.”
Preston sighed heavily.
“I remember them arguing that night,” she said quietly. “Not screaming. Just… sharp. Like words that stick to you.” She shook her head. “She left. I didn’t know why. I had my headphones on and all I could hear was… it sounded like she was upset about my dad’s client, Mr. Yabluidbytch.”
“Yabluidbytch?”
“That’s what I heard. I can’t lie, I snooped on my dad’s laptop.
He had a couple of Russian oil companies he was working for but I didn’t find any ‘Yabluidbytch’ on file.
Then I looked for the name in the entire state and got varying results.
” Preston sat in silence as she stared down the road, eyes glassy but dry.
“I missed Beaumont when I left. Missed it so bad, it hurt. But I didn’t know if I could ever come back here alone.
Didn’t know if I could grieve her properly if I did. ”
The weight of her pain pressed into Preston’s chest.
“I don’t hate this place,” she said. “I just don’t know how to be here without her.”
He stepped closer – not touching, just present. “You don’t have to figure that out tonight. But one day you will. And I’ll be there when you do.”
She nodded once. “I know.”
They stood there another moment, the road empty, the past loud.
When they got back into the car, Preston didn’t say anything else. He didn’t ask about her dad. Didn’t circle back to the question that had started it all.
Some things didn’t need to be named yet.
He drove the rest of the way in silence, hands steady on the wheel, making a quiet decision to carry what he could – and leave the rest alone.
For now.