Page 42 of Hearts Don't Lie
After breakfast, Mac walked to work with Hardin on one side of her and Stowe on the other, all of them wearing ball caps and sunglasses. She felt as though she were in a surreal dream. During breakfast, they had both offered to help at Intrepid when they heard how slammed she and Cori were with excursions. They mostly walked in silence until Beckett approached on his bike.
“Hey, Bro. A bunch of us are going fishing. Wanna come?” Beckett’s eyes strayed to Hardin as he straddled his bike, pushing along with both feet, keeping pace with them as they walked.
Stowe glanced at Mac in question.
Her eyebrows rose at her son, signaling him to make introductions, but he appeared to have either forgotten or didn’t want to. “Beckett, this is Hardin,” she said nonchalantly even though her heart was pounding.
“There’s a soccer player with the same name. Hardin Ambrose. He’s American but plays for Spain.”
“You don’t say,” Hardin said wryly, his smile just this side of cocky.
Mac held her breath as Beckett kept talking.
“I told Bro a few times when we were watching Hardin Ambrose play that he kinda looked like him. Where’re you going, Aunt Kenna?”
“Intrepid.”
“Mom went in early.”
“I know,” Mac said.
Beckett’s attention returned to Hardin. “You kinda look like Stowe too. Are you related?”
Mac noticed how Stowe became overly interested in the houses and trees on the other side of the street.
Beckett didn’t seem to pick up his best friend’s lack of engagement and eagerly launched back into his original topic. “Ambrose is like the best player ever! Our favorite! Right, Bro? Fast as lightning. Agile. Me and Stowe, wenevermiss his games. Do you watch soccer?”
The amusement in Hardin’s voice was evident. “Sometimes.”
Stowe looked uncomfortable and grimaced.
“Where at, Beck?” Mac asked.
He blinked at the abrupt change in the direction of conversation. “Huh?”
“Where are you planning on fishing?”
“Oh. The gulch.”
She stopped walking and inclined her head at the towhead, a soft smile on her face. “I know that, you silly boy. Where along the gulch?”
“Sorry, Aunt Kenna,” he said sheepishly. “Chalk Creek. It’s shallow but running good with all the rain we’ve had. Mom and Dad said it was okay.”
“Of course you can go, honey.” She squeezed Stowe’s shoulder, which he shrugged off. He moved toward Beckett. “Just stay out of the water and be back by”—she glanced at her watch—“three o’clock. Do you have your key?”
He had turned sullen, not like him at all. “Yep.”
“You need food and drinks. And sunscreen and bug spray. Figure it out between the two of you.” She nodded at the boys. “Oh! I moved your tackle box to the shed since it was smelling up your closet. And take a SPOT.”
“I have one packed already,” Beckett said.
“Good. Have fun and be careful.” She leaned over and kissed her son, whispering in his ear, “We’ll talk later, okay?”
Stowe nodded curtly but didn’t look at her.
“Stowe?”
His head rotated toward her, the pain on his face evident. “In the Box?”
