His mouth flattens, taking that almost-smile away with it, and his scowl reemerges. “Why is it that everything that comes out of your mouth sounds dirty?”
I laugh. “I’ll take that as a bonus compliment. Now, go. Drive safe.”
“I will. Love you, Mav.”
“Love you, Wag.”
He hates that nickname, so as he bounds down the stairs, taking two at a time, he sticks his hand up over his shoulder and flips me off.
“Are you watching, Uncle Kick?”
“I am. I am. Just don’t go too far,” I call out, waving Sammy away from the pen and closer to me.
I’m sitting under the sprawling valley oak tree, having a pinch-me moment, watching my nephew on his training wheel bike from the exact same spot Grandpa Rick used to watch me get saddled up for a horse ride.
Being back in Silverstone, living in his house, making my way through piles of his and Grandma’s stuff, it’s making me all sentimental. But I hate that all my good childhood memories are tied to him and not to my parents. There are times I’m tempted to call Dad and yell at him for having kids and never being there for us. What the fuck were he and Mom thinking?
But I always talk myself out of confronting him, figuring what’s the point? It won’t change anything, and even though I’m not particularly close to Dad, at least we’re in touch occasionally. Trauma dumping on him is only going to lead to full-on estrangement, and I don’t want that.
I may not be able to do anything about the past, but I’m determined to learn from it and do everything I can to make sure Sammy knows he is loved and special and important.
It’s late afternoon, the hustle and bustle of the day giving way to long shadows and the sounds of the horses being put in for the evening. The sun dips low in the sky, casting a honey glow over everything. It’s so peaceful and relaxing.
“Michael Jackson!”
My head snaps to where Jackson is walking. Sammy changes directions to head toward him, wobbly at first but gaining speed, his tiny legs pedaling fast. He brakes forcefully when he reaches Jackson, kicking up some dirt behind him.
Jackson drops the two buckets he was carrying and offers a rigid wave. “Hey, Sammy. How are you?”
Sammy leaps off his bike and throws his arms around Jackson’s leg. Poor guy looks like he hasn’t got the faintest clue what to do. He tentatively taps the top of Sammy’s curly blond head a couple of times. I hold in my smile.
“Wanna see me ride?” Sammy asks, staring up at him.
“Uh, sure.”
“Go sit next to Uncle Kick andwatch me. Okay?”
“Of course.”
Jackson strides over to me. My eyes dance with amusement at how my four-year-old nephew just bossed my employee in a way that would land me in hot water if I so much as attempted to speak to him like that.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches me, and even though he’s dirty, damn, he looksgood.
His flannel shirt is rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms flecked with dust. His jeans are caked in dried mud and something else I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the origin of. His damp black hair clings to his neck, and he smells like leather, hay, and sweat.
I breathe in the intoxicating scent, greeting him with a smile. “Hi,” I say, crossing my ankle over my knee.
My smile grows when he doesn’t plant himself on the edge like he did last time but drops down a solid foot inside the bench. I’ll take that as progress.
“Are you both watching?” Sammy yells, pushing the pedals with determination.
“We are. And you’re doing great, buddy,” I yell back. “Keep going!”
“Okay.” His face is filled with determination. “But keep looking.”
“We will.”
Jackson chuckles softly.
