3. Three
Three
The mountains of North Carolina are a dream in June. With the windows down as I drive, the colors of twilight seem everlasting on the horizon. I imagine every word spoken today blowing out to live the rest of their lives in the velvety green hills and valleys around me.
I grew up in the next town over, Rocky Ridge, but now Laurel Hills is home. It’s small, with a little downtown and a handful of restaurants and shops, but no matter where you stand—mountains. Less than an hour to the busy city of Asheville, it feels like another world.
I park outside of my small white house on the edge of town and let out a long full breath that holds the weight of my disastrous day.
On the steps of my porch sits Huck—an eight-year-old foster kid who lives next door with a couple I’ve always just known as Miss Alice and Mr. Steve. They’ve had foster kids rotating in and out for the years I’ve lived here, but Huck is the first one that I’ve gotten close to. Since the day he moved in nine months ago, we’ve been friends.
“Hey, Huck,” I say as I sit next to him.
“Hey, Birdie,” he says, a little too loudly.
“How was your day?”
“How was your day?” he parrots.
Right .
I smile. “What I meant to say was, I wonder how Huck’s day was.”
He looks at me. “Huck had a good day. I made this robot out of Legos.” He holds up a colorful blocky creation. “And sometimes a female praying mantis will eat her mate.”
I widen my eyes dramatically. “Well, it sounds like a praying mantis can have a day worse than I had.”
“Birdie had a bad day.” He frowns.
“Birdie had a bad day,” I say with an exhale, looking at the bubblegum sky.
A bark followed by a whimper and the excited tapping of claws comes from the other side of the door behind us.
“George Strait is barking,” Huck says.
“I wonder if Huck would like to walk George Strait with me.” I tilt my head toward the door with a smile.
“Huck would,” he says without making eye contact.
When I open the door, the goldendoodle pounces out of the house and licks Huck on the face. He lets out a rare, loud laugh. It would sound awkward and out of place coming from any other kid, but with Huck it’s liquid gold .
It’s our near-nightly routine. Me coming home, Huck waiting for me, and the walk that always follows.
With the dog on a leash, we fall into step together on the sidewalk, Huck careful to avoid every crack.
When he and I walk the dog, sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t—he decides. I like the company; he doesn’t always want the conversation.
“Huck wonders why George Strait is named that,” he says after we walk quietly for a few minutes.
“George Strait was my mom’s favorite singer,” I reply. Like they always do, the words teleport me to a time where “I Just Want to Dance with You” plays on a CD in the living room, and my dad twirls my mom around for no reason other than she loves it.
The dog barks at a squirrel and pops the memory.
“Huck wonders why Birdie had a bad day.” He looks up at me as we stop at some trees where George Strait sniffs and marks his territory.
“Hmm,” I say, thinking of how Veda and Bo sent bulldozers barreling over my life in the last twenty-four hours. I have no idea how to explain any of that to a kid. “I had a bad day because some people don’t understand me.”
“Some people don’t understand me too.”
I look down at him and try to remember who I was at eight. I wasn’t who I am now, that’s for damn sure. I was an ordinary kid who had a mom who wore floral wrap dresses and spun around the kitchen to country music while she baked cookies. I didn’t know about troubles or what it meant to be misunderstood. Now, at thirty-seven, my life is so different— I’m so different—and I can’t imagine grappling with these same feelings at his age.
His tiny shoulders carry a heavy weight, one I desperately wish I could lift for him.
I reach my hand out to him. “At least we have each other.”
He eyes my hand, like he isn’t sure if he’s going to take it—but today he does. “And George Strait.”
“And George Strait.”
“The praying mantis can turn its head 180 degrees,” he says, jumping over another crack.
“That’s impressive. I wonder what else Huck can tell me about them.”
“Some praying mantises can eat hummingbirds.”
My eyes widen as I look down at him. “Why on earth would they do that?”
“Why on earth would they do that?” he repeats as we stop at a small field in the neighborhood, taking the dog off the leash to throw a ball to him.
I let out a breath, frustrated with myself for being so distracted I can’t speak right. Smiling, I try again. “I wonder why a praying mantis would eat a poor little hummingbird.”
He laughs. “Because they’re hungry, Birdie.”
I throw a ball the dog chases. “I guess you’re right, but that’s such a sad thought. I wonder what else you know about them.”
And for the rest of the walk, he tells me more than I want to know about the insect. For those few minutes, despite the unusual topic of conversation, we have each other.
Lying in bed, I fight sleep. Again.
Trying to name the mix of emotions that sit on my chest is like trying to pluck a single grain of sand out of a mud puddle.
Furious that Bo lied to me.
Annoyed by how him opening the door had the power it did.
Devastated that even if the first two things weren’t true, my life wouldn’t allow for anything different. Time wouldn’t allow for anything different.
Nauseous over how much his touch still lives on my skin like a phantom limb.
Humiliated about, well, everything.
I suck my cheeks in as I stare at the dark ceiling. Tomorrow will be better.
I grab my phone off my nightstand, typing Daniel “Bo” Monroe into the search bar. I need to see his wife. Just a picture so I can visualize the woman whose marriage I just tainted, whether she knows it or not. For what? So I can feel even worse? I don’t even know the answer to that.
The top result is for a cabin building business, Monroe Cabins. I click on the link, ending up on a website that features a picture of him in a hard hat standing next to a cabin. He’s a builder. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of Libby’s question. Like someone who builds houses? It’s almost as if she wanted this to happen. Even if he was married? What woman would do that ?
I shove the thoughts away, clicking one of the icons that links to a social media page. All professional photos of finished and in-progress cabins, no hint at his personal life or wife.
I click to make one larger, examining the details. The mountains are filled with cabins, but his are unique in that they also look modern. Like you could walk in and see animal heads mounted on the walls as much as abstract art. My thumb scrolls across the pictures, the wood of the logs combine with industrial metal finishes to create a sort of architectural art.
Swiping to the next one, I clumsily hit the heart icon in the corner. I flinch with an audible, “No!” as I drop the phone like a hot potato. If he runs this account, he’ll see my name. He’ll know I was looking.
Before my phone makes it to the nightstand, it vibrates with a text.
Unknown number : A little bird told me you see something you like .
Shit.
Me : It was an accident. How did you get this number?
Bo: You accidentally ended up on my business page and liked a photo from 8 months ago at 9:30 at night?
My body is so hot I feel like a hog on a spit over a fire. I don’t respond. I can’t. How the hell can I defend myself?
Three dots appear and disappear before finally:
Bo: Gran gave me your number so you could reach me if you have any questions.
No.
Me: I don’t.
Minutes pass in a silence that’s only broken up by the sound of the ceiling fan spinning above me.
Bo: That house you liked is one of my favorites—I could show you sometime.
The emotion that’s been stewing isn’t muddled at all, it’s a crystal-clear vibration of rage.
Me: You should probably show your wife.
I turn off my phone, put it on my nightstand, and let Bo steal another night of my sleep without permission.