“Mom.”
“Oh, that’s right. You can burn water. Probably don’t have the magic in your genes. Skips a generation. Do you think Junie will make pie for Dean and his floozy?”
“Mom. We are not calling her that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was not the one who was married when they started sleeping together.”
“She knew he was married, though. And he’s a man. They can’t—”
“So help me, I will hang up on you and not talk to you again until next year if you finish that thought.”
“Not crying anymore, are you?”
I pull the phone back and gape at it. “You are the worst.”
“And the best,” she chirps.
My phone dings in my ear, so I put Mom on speaker while I check to see what’s up.
And then I get teary eyed all over again. “Junie says they’re shutting the boarding door and she’ll ping me from Florida.”
Yes, Florida.
Dean and his parents decided that Junie deserved a warm beach getaway for Thanksgiving, so they rented a condo on a beach in Florida. Where there are no bears. Where it’s warm. Where there’s a beach. No dead cows. They’d probably let her on the soccer team, even if she was late for tryouts.
“She’s never coming back, is she?” I whisper.
“Junie’s a smart girl. She can’t be swayed by beach trips and piles of early Christmas presents.”
“Oh God. She’s going to be swayed by the beach and presents.”
She snorts. “No, she won’t.”
“What if she’s miserable? She’s not stupid. She notices Dean only calls about every fourth time he says he will. She’s getting tired of the excuses. And he says this is to make it up to her, but what if she’s secretly resentful and she doesn’t feel right and she’s utterly miserable?”
“It’s only a week. She’s a strong girl. She’ll find her way through. Did I tell you that one of the guards was making eyes at me last week?”
I don’t even pretend I’m annoyed at the idea that she’d flirt with her prison guard. I’m too grateful for the distraction she’s providing.
And don’t tell me she didn’t know to call right now.
She probably pulled prison strings to switch call times. Because that’s exactly the sort of thing my mom would do.
She’s there with me while I stare at the runway as the plane that I know is Junie’s finally takes off, and she talks to me as I start my drive home, not warning me she’s about to be cut off, as usual, which happens about five minutes into my hour-long drive.
I stop in Hell’s Bells to grab a sandwich from the deli and to smile at the picture of Uncle Tony and me still hanging on the wall. I wish Junie had memories of him, but she’s settling in at the home he left us, so I’ll have to be satisfied with that.
“You okay, Maisey?” Izzy, the deli’s owner, asks me as she hands me my sandwich.
My eyes are dry and sore, and I probably look like crap, but I nod. “Just dropped Junie off,” I whisper.
If I say it any louder, I’ll cry again.
She nods once, grabs three chocolate chip cookies, and throws them in my bag and then pats me on the shoulder from across the counter. “Call if you need anything.”
I blink and nod and dash for the door before simple kindnesses make this worse.
But when I get home, it’s no better.
There’s a massive basket of treats sitting on my doorstep.
And it has all my favorites. Kit Kats. Twizzlers. Oreos. Peanut butter cups. A bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs that are completely out of season. Cans of hard kombucha and a bottle of my favorite red wine. Candles. Bubble bath. Body lotion. And a carton of Tums.
In the middle, there’s a card tucked in, with a short message in bold, masculine handwriting.
To help if you’re down. Call if you need me.
It’s seven days.
Seven days when I’m supposed to be so excited about having no responsibilities beyond doing whatever it is I want to do to make me happy, and I know exactly what I want to do to make me happy.
But I’m a mess.
I sink onto my front step, survey the light dusting of snow on the ground and up on the butte, zip up my jacket, and dive into the basket.
That’s how Flint finds me fifteen minutes later.
Sitting on my porch, basket in my lap, my sandwich uneaten beside me and my stomach starting to hurt from the cookies at the airport topped with the Kit Kats and the kombucha.
“I miss my baby,” I blurt, and then, to my utter horror, I start to cry.
He nods to the front door. “She have access to that on her phone?”
“Why could she control the door with her phone?” I sob.
“The doorbell, Maisey. Your video doorbell that you installed last week. Can she see who’s coming and going on her phone?”
“Oh. No. Unless—crap. Unless she stole my password.”
He lifts his brows.
“No,” I say, more firmly. “My bank account passwords, yes. But not the doorbell camera.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, then smiles and joins me on the porch. He’s not wearing a coat—just jeans, boots, and a big flannel—and I wonder if he’s cold.
“She worries about you,” he tells me.
I swipe my eyes and swear this is the last time. She’s going to be fine. “That’s not her job. It’s my job to worry about her.”
“And you’re doing great.” He loops an arm around my shoulder, and I feel something I never felt when I’d worry about her while I was on the road with Dean.
True compassion.
Comfort.
Understanding.
Patience.
There’s no Suck it up, Maisey. Our parents raised us—they’ve got our daughter.
Not that Flint would use the same line as Dean, but he might express the same sentiment.
And she’s not spending a few weeks with her grandparents while her father and I are on the road this time. This time, she’s spending a week with her father and his girlfriend and her grandparents, who will all act like I’m the bad guy for keeping her from them.
“I don’t want to be the bad guy,” I confess while I lean into his heat.
“To her or to everyone else?”
“To her.”
“She knows you’re not the bad guy.”
“You’re just saying that to get into my pants.”
He snorts in amusement. “Is it working?” he deadpans.
“Clearly. Didn’t you see them just go flying?” I sigh and drop my head into my hands. “Look, I’m a total disaster. Maybe—maybe come back in a few hours?”
“Nope. C’mon, Maisey. In we go. Time to watch your favorite movie and wait for Junie to call and say she landed.”
“You called her Junie.”
“So do all of her friends when you’re not around, even if she tells us teachers to call her June.”
I don’t know why that breaks me again, but it does. Flint hauls me to my feet and pulls me into my house and then directs me onto the couch in front of the fireplace with the television over it. He disappears for a hot second but returns with the basket of goodies from the porch.