The pit in my stomach confirms that maybe not growing up with a real mom or dad was never my biggest problem. Never growing up in the first place was.
Once my sight clears, all I see is Monty—not just the guy who happened to get my mom pregnant all those years ago.
Future me.
Like most nights, my every thought loops around and connects in some way to Mesa again. Her smile flashes across my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut. If I’m still the man I’ve always been, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing by selfishly inserting myself into a situation with Mesa that she doesn’t deserve.
The truck picks up speed at that moment, and I almost pull my fist back and attempt to knock him clean out. If my hands weren’t shaking, I would.
Moron, I internally scold myself.You should have never jumped in this vehicle. When will you start making smartdecisions? Are you going to keep doing stupid shit like this forever? Are you going to turn out just like him?
Having channeled a new level of anger after that string of thoughts, I reach for the wheel. I’d hoped to take control of the steering, but the hasty move backfired. To keep me away, Monty stiff-arms my chest, causing him to lean his entire body away toward the driver’s side window. His left hand loses traction on the wheel.
The first major bump after drifting from the smooth, paved road wasn’t too bad. The vehicle easily smashes through an old fence in the next second. Monty flops against the door from the unanticipated jostling, and I fly across the center console with as much speed as I can muster to right the wheel.
With an aggressive downward pull, I jerk us back in the direction of the fence, hoping a second impact will slow our momentum long enough for me to wedge my foot through his legs and hit the brake. The sound of dry brush and tumbleweeds scraping and snapping against the metal undercarriage clangs against my eardrums.
My pulse picks up to an urgent, chaotic tempo. His foot backs off the gas, and my hope returns for a moment. If I could just lift him out of the way somehow . . .
The moment I see the eight-foot ditch in our path, it’s too late for me to swerve without rolling us, and I know we’re fucked.
28
MESA
The sky holdsits breath as thunder rolls in the distance, loud and mean. The gray clouds have yet to break open, but the wind is changing. I stand, barefoot and leaning against the jamb of my open back door, inhaling the earthy sweetness of my garden layered with the fresh, electric scent of looming moisture.
I’m not scared of a little rain and thunder. But having lived in the south my whole life, I know storms never show up without taking something. There’s no sleeping soundly on an evening like this.
Gusts of sharp wind pluck fragile petals from their stems, curling through the dense blooms in my garden like thieves. I’m tempted to take down the wind chimes Tripp hung above the fairy garden that we dedicated to his mom. The longer the storm builds, the more they clatter against one another. The sound is hollow and twisted—like a haunting lullaby played in a minor key.
The stirred-up scent of dirt, petals, and herbs is typically calming for me. Tonight, it’s anything but, and it’s had me on edge since the sun went down.
A rumble, followed by an intense crack in the sky, closer this time, is what finally makes me step inside my cottage and close the door. The restless feeling in my bones sticks around even under the still protection of my home.
After pouring a steaming cup of tea and finding my softest blanket, I curl up at the end of the couch. The lamp in the corner of the room flickers once. I pick my phone up from the side table to call Tripp, but it goes unanswered. Again. We haven’t spoken since early last night.
I’m trying to let him enjoy going out with his friends without being needy, so after a few swipes and a click, I dial Mom instead.
“That was a rough one,” she says without a formal greeting. “Headed your way, looks like.”
“It’s definitely on its way. If the storm is already out of the city though, it won’t last long here.”
“I guess you made it home alright, then?”
I sigh and turn sideways to lean my back against the couch’s armrest. “Yeah, I did. The drive’s not as bad as I remember it as a kid. It’s pretty and peaceful.”
“I’m surprised you remember the drives,” she laughs. “You usually slept the whole time.”
I snicker and try to let the memories take shape in my mind. My nana lived here during my childhood. I was about to go to college when she moved to a retirement community in the city, where she could get the part-time medical assistance that she needed.
She tried to gift me this place, but I was stubborn in my young age and wanted to earn it. It wasn’t until I sold my app and could afford to buy it from her that I made it my home.
I used to lie face down on the trampoline in the backyard. Nana would sing in the cottage kitchen with every window wide open in the early fall. My nose, cheeks, and forehead wouldsmush against the warm, black surface. Staring through the tiny diamond-shaped holes was a silly habit, but I liked the feel of the sun on my back as I tried to spot the little fairy Mom would hide in the grass below.
I bought every detail of the story she’d tell me—fairies escape your garden if your heart doesn’t make them feel welcome. You must be kind and gentle, yet brave and strong. Protect the nature around you and the fairies will sense your respect.
Any time I visited Nana’s cottage and ran straight to the backyard, I’d fuss over any stray weeds or old blooms that needed deadheading. My little legs would crouch by the fairy garden to groom and nurture it—water can in hand, bandana in my hair, and red dirt covering the bottoms of my feet.
