2. Chapter 2
two
Bacon—the aroma I woke to my whole childhood. This part of Texas doesn’t acknowledge the existence of triglycerides.
My eyelids flutter open, and for a second, I don’t know where I am. Then it sinks in—this room, this ceiling fan, this air—and for one stupid heartbeat, my mind goes straight to him.
A memory baked into this room. A teenage me reaching for a boy who isn’t a boy anymore.
And then the sight of my bare left hand reminds me of the man I actually married. The ring I left on his nightstand. The storm I know is coming.
I did not marry a meek man.
Feeling Bowie’s warm little body pressed into me, his curls tickling my chin, I come back to the here and now, my gaze roaming the room. My old life.
My new mess.
The ceiling fan hums the same way it did when I was young. Mom has a new bedspread and curtains, but the furniture’s the same. Very little has changed—except me.
Bowie sighs in his sleep and scoots closer, his hand curling around my arm, holding onto his life preserver. Truth is, he’s my life preserver. The only thing that makes sense anymore, the reason I get up in the morning.
I catch the smell of coffee, which is a lure I cannot resist. More so than the bacon.
Kissing Bowie, stroking his forehead, I push the covers back. “It’s a new day, Scarlett.”
I’ll regroup. Reshape.
Life will go on.
This is the first day of starting over, whether I’m ready or not.
Following the tempting smells, I pad down the hallway into the kitchen. Coming up behind her, I wrap my arms around my mother. “Smells good, Mom. Thank you.” I know her. She’s been up for some time.
She turns and wraps me in an unexpected hug. “Everything’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”
No.
But for her sake, I lie and attempt a smile. “I know.”
“One day at a time.” She strokes my bed hair out of my face. “That’s all life is, sweetheart, for most people.”
“It never used to feel that way.”
She holds me back, gripping my shoulders, her brows lifted high. “Believe me—it is for most people.”
I’m not in the mood to argue, so I snatch a piece of bacon from the platter, savoring it as I pour my first cup of coffee. I haven’t had real bacon for so long. Eight years of turkey bacon, oatmeal, yogurt, fruit—Grant’s version of a ‘healthy start for the day.’
That was after he’d run three miles.
Daddy would say turkey bacon isn’t bacon at all. Of course, he would.
“I made plenty,” Mom says. “You’re too thin, Laurel. Eat up.”
“How was your drive?” Dad.
My shoulders tighten. My body remembers him even when my mind tries not to. The tone. The impatience. The way he can shrink a room without raising his voice.
I swallow my coffee and answer, “Fine,” before turning.
My father never changes. He hasn’t grayed like Mom has, his sandy brown hair still thick. A striking man, really. Big and broad.
He nods like that’s that, like I just drove in from Brownwood or Marble Falls.
Jesus, Dad.
I give him a flat look. “Bowie’s fine, in case you were wondering.”
“Don’t start with me, Laurel.” He flashes a withering glare as he pours his coffee and snags a piece of bacon.
“What’s the matter? Rough night, Daddy? Need a little hair of the dog?” I reach for the whiskey bottle he keeps in the cabinet. “Here. Have a splash in your coffee.”
Mom turns, spatula in hand. “That’s enough, you two. I’m not going to put up with this. Dabbo, you make peace that it is what it is, and Laurel, you don’t pick fights with your father.”
“Mommy?” Bowie stands in the doorway to the kitchen, tears in his eyes. “I wet myself.”
“It’s okay, Baby.” I scoop him into my arms, wiping his tears. “You’re just learning. That happens. Come on, I’ll get you changed.”
He’s too little to carry the weight of my choices.
What I’m doing will alter the course of his life, I know that. So I hold him tighter than I should, wishing I could shield him from every sharp edge in life.
Returning to the kitchen with Bowie on my hip, I murmur, “Dad left,” taking all the tension with him. My shoulders relax.
She cuts her eyes at me. “He got up a little later than normal. Gobbled his breakfast. Ladera National Bank can’t open without him, you know.”
I do. I also know nobody can borrow a dime in this town that Dabbo Hayes doesn’t approve.
His real name is Dabney—his mother’s idea of honoring her old Southern people.
His father hated it, made no secret of it, and slapped “Dabbo” on him before he could walk.
I always thought that defeated the whole purpose of Gran-Gran naming him after her ancestors, but somehow they both considered the compromise a victory.
“Cer-re-ral!” Bowie exclaims, pointing at the box of Fruit Loops on the bar.
Thank you, Mom.
Bowie rarely gets sugary cereal, a no-no in Grant Prescott’s house. You’d think it was Christmas.
“Here you go.” I set him in the booster chair and pour his colorful bowl of cereal, whispering over my shoulder, “I thought Dad might spend some time with his g-r-a-n-d-s-o-n.”
Bowie looks up, stuffing a handful of loops into his mouth. “What’s that?”
“Grandson? It just means you’re Pop-Pop’s boy,” I say. “Pop-Pop’s at work.”
“Pop-Pop!”
“You know your father and work,” Mom says. “They’ll have quality time tonight.”
“I hope so. Dad’s the only man in his life now.”
She freezes mid-pour, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Laurel… are you sure? This is a huge decision that doesn’t need to be made on impulse.”
Our gazes catch. “I’m not going to live the way I’ve been living any longer.” I’ve spared them the details. “I’m starting over.”