14. Holden #2
“We’re very committed,” Micah says, and means it.
“Good. Because Milo loves deeply. He gets that from me.” She takes a sip of wine. “And the people I love, I keep.”
She says it like a compliment. It lands like a warning.
Sage shifts beside me. I feel her knee press against mine under the table—not flirtatious, just are you hearing this?
I press back. Yeah. I’m hearing it.
“What time does Rodrigo get home?” Milo asks, spooning more potato salad onto his plate. “He’s going to be so bummed he missed meeting kitten.”
The table seizes. Gene’s fork freezes midway to his mouth. Dennis goes perfectly, absolutely still. Ray tenses across the shoulders.
Dennis catches Gene’s eye. He gives the smallest shake of his head.
Gloria sets her wine glass down. The sound of the stem meeting the table is barely audible, but every dad at this table flinches.
“Rodrigo won’t be coming home, sweetheart,” she says.
Her voice is measured. Pleasant. A weather woman describing a cold front.
“He and I came to a parting of ways. He wasn’t behaving the way he should.
There were conversations. Boundaries that were discussed and then disregarded.
” She picks up her fork and examines a piece of potato as though it requires her full attention.
“Some people aren’t built for this kind of life, no matter how much they want to be. Rodrigo turned out to be one of them.”
“Oh.” Milo’s face falls for a moment. Then he glances through the sliding glass door into the backyard, and his expression clears.
“Actually, I should’ve guessed. New garden plot.
” He turns to us to casually explain. “Whenever one of my dads moves on, Mom plants a commemorative garden of their favorite flowers. You know, to remember all the good times.” He smiles at Gloria.
“That’s nice, Mom. What were Rodrigo’s?”
“Marigolds,” Gloria says, and takes a sip of wine.
I look through the glass door and almost choke on my drink.
There are six garden plots in the backyard.
Six neat, rectangular beds, each roughly six feet long and three feet wide, spaced at even intervals along the back fence.
Fresh soil on the newest one—dark, recently turned, the marigolds just beginning to sprout.
The others are more established. One’s thick with lavender, one with roses, others with daisies, wildflowers, and bushes with tiny purple flowers I don’t know the name of.
“Ah, what were your dad’s favorite flowers, Milo?” I ask.
“Lavender. Why?” Milo responds, and Sage kicks me under the table.
“Just asking,” I say, cool as possible.
Sage clears her throat. “This corn is amazing, Gloria. What’s the seasoning?”
“Oh! It’s a chipotle lime butter. I’ll write down the recipe for you.”
We eat faster after that.
When we say our goodbyes, Gloria presses a loaf of banana bread into Sage’s hands then hugs each of us.
They’re not polite hugs—these are full-body, bone-creaking embraces that last three seconds longer than expected and come with cheek kisses and direct eye contact that feels like being scanned at airport security.
“I’m keeping my eye on you,” she tells me, both hands on my shoulders, nails digging through my shirt. “You take care of my boy. And your girl. She’s special.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. Call me Gloria.”
“Okay, Gloria.”
She pats my cheek. It stings.
We file out the front door. Down the driveway. Into the Suburban.
Nobody speaks until the doors are closed and we’ve pulled out of the cul-de-sac. Then everyone speaks at once.
“What the fuck—!” Sage gasps.
“Were those men—?” Eli shudders.
“The way they looked at her when she—?” Micah stammers.
“Why did those garden beds look like fucking graves?” Knox blurts, surprising everyone.
Milo drives. He checks his mirrors. He doesn’t seem to register that anything unusual occurred.
I lean forward from the passenger seat. “Milo?”
“Yeah?”
“Those men are afraid of your mother.”
Milo considers this for approximately two seconds. “I mean, sure. A little. Mom has high standards. But they’re happy. It works.”
“Dennis did a threat-assessment check before reaching for the corn.”
“Dennis has always been a careful eater.”
“Gene’s hands were shaking.”
“Gene has low blood sugar.”
“They’re all wearing shock collars, Milo!”
Milo’s grip on the steering wheel tightens for just a moment. “That’s a personal lifestyle choice and I’d appreciate if you didn’t kink-shame my parents.”
“It’s not kink-shaming if the man flinched so hard he nearly left the chair!”
“Gene’s always been jumpy.”
“Your mother said Rodrigo wasn’t behaving the way he should and three grown men flinched.”
Milo signals a turn, sighing. “Rodrigo was always a drama llama. He caused big issues in the house.”
“Milo.” Sage leans between the front seats, her hand on his shoulder. “Baby. The garden plots.”
“What about them?”
“They’re six feet long.”
“Mom likes symmetry.”
“They’re shaped like coffins, Milo.”
Silence. Milo’s jaw works.
“They’re commemorative gardens,” he says. “I told you. She plants their favorite flowers. It’s sweet.”
“It’s sweet if the men moved away,” I say. “It’s a crime scene if they’re buried under the soil.”
Milo rolls his eyes. “Of course they moved away. Craig’s in Nevada.
Pete moved to Florida. Hank runs the meat works—Micah and Sage met him!
He was never a full dad, though. So he doesn’t have a garden.
” He pauses. Knits his brow. “Rodrigo probably went back to his family in Tucson. Mom just likes to mark the chapter, you know? Closure.”
“With a six-foot rectangular plot? And a fucking cross?” Knox asks.
“It’s a plant stake. Not a cross! God!”
Micah rubs a hand over his face. “Milo, think about this for a second. Your mother—who, by your own admission, stalked a man into a psychiatric facility for cheating on her—has a backyard full of grave-sized flower beds dedicated to every man who’s ever left her. And you don’t find that . . . notable?”
“She’s an avid gardener.”
“And what about your father?” I ask. “The way she reacted when Sage asked?”
His face clouds over. “We don’t talk about my father.”
“Why?”
I let the silence play out, see how long Milo can disassociate before he cracks.
It lasts all of three traffic lights before Milo, who has never met a conversational cliff he didn’t swan-dive off, mutters, “We just don’t.”
That’s not good enough. Not for me, not for the million questions humming between the dash and the windshield, not for the way Sage’s hand creeps tighter on my shoulder.
“You don’t talk about your father,” I repeat, and lean in, because if he thinks I’m letting this ride he knows nothing about me. “Why not? Because he’s under the lavender in your mom’s backyard?”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look at me. He’s white in the knuckles and gray in the face, and his mouth goes flat.
I want to claw my question back but I don’t. Milo’s not made for pity, and he’d rather I roast him than offer a soft landing.
“We don’t talk about my dad,” he says again, quieter, through his teeth. He sounds like a computer error message stuck on a loop. “Ever.”
I believe him. There’s no backstory coming. No TED Talk, no joke, just a solid wall with no door in. But I do see him check his rearview before he adds, “But if you ever want to know where to get human-grade shock collars, I can help.”
The car goes quiet.
“Okay,” Sage says, letting out a heavy breath. She sits back. Crosses her arms. “So now everything about you makes sense.”
Milo grins. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She scrubs a hand over her face. “Why don’t we change the subject? Tell us about your sister.”
“She’s super weird,” he says, pulling his head back slightly. “My brother is even weirder.”
“You have a brother?” Micah asks.
“Yeah. Haven’t I mentioned him?”
“No,” the entire car answers.
He flaps a hand. “We don’t get along.”
“Dare I ask why?” Micah says slowly, wincing.
“My sister, Tyrah, is an artist—super into roller derby and shit.”
“How does that make her weird?” I ask.
“She’s not weird. It’s her values. Both she and my brother completely rejected the family unit.
Gabe went so far as to tell Mom that if she ever contacted him again, he’d open an investigation into her—like loving multiple partners is a crime.
” He scoffs then shakes his head sadly. “He’s a criminal prosecutor for the state. Super successful. Ultra judgy.”
Nobody laughs. I sit back and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Then Milo takes a left for absolutely no reason, and we drive the long way home.