Page 55 of The Roads We Follow

As quickly as my fumbling fingers can move, I tap into our shared family app and spot Hattie’s location on the map. She’s not at Carter’s. It looks like she’s now across the street at someplace called Ye Ol’ Western Bar and Grill. I provide the address to our driver, and within a few minutes, we’ve pulled up, jumped out, and rushed inside a bar that looks like it could be a set in a Louis L’Amour novel.

“There she is,” Micah says, barreling ahead to where Hattie’s slumped on a stool, her head down on the glossy bar top. Alone.

“She belong to you, mister?” the barkeep asks.

“To us, yes.” Micah moves his finger between him and me, and a warm floaty feeling is suddenly at war with my surge of adrenaline.

“Lady came in about twenty minutes ago with a no-good crowd. They all moved on after her credit card was declined.”

I shiver at the idea of anyone trying to take advantage of my sister and set a protective hand on her back. She barely makes the effort to lift her head. “Hattie? Honey, are you alright? We’re here to take you back to the hotel.”

“Just leave me,” she slurs. “I’m a terrible person.”

“We’re not leaving you.” Not for a second time, anyway.

“Afraid she can’t leave without paying off her balance. I ran her card twice,” the barkeep states. “Receipt says non-sufficient funds.”

“Here.” Micah hands his Visa over to the guy with three piercingsin his bottom lip, and I assure him I’ll reimburse the total as soon as we get back to the hotel. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

So instead, I worry about how to get my sister into a standing position, which is much harder than it looks in the movies. It doesn’t matter how petite a person is when they literally can’t lift their own legs to save their soul. When Micah grabs her opposite arm and slings it around his neck, our walking speed triples. That is, until it’s time to brainstorm the best way to get her into the back of a sedan while our young driver offers us his pro tips on transporting intoxicated passengers. I’m wondering if he’s learned these best practices from the college stamped across his backward hat or from this side hustle he looks in no way old enough to have.

“I’d scoot her to the middle seat,” he says. “That way she’s propped up between the two of you like the tomato plants in Mom’s garden cages.”

“Good advice,” Micah says, shooting me an amused look as he hands me the other end of Hattie’s buckle. Immediately after I click her in, her head lolls back against the seat.

Micah thanks our driver again for agreeing to wait for us while we took care of business inside the bar and has just started to ask him questions about his life when Hattie begins to groan and clutch at her abdomen.

With lightning-speed reflexes, Micah flicks the ball cap off our young driver’s head and apologizes profusely as Hattie lurches forward, proceeding to empty the contents of her stomach into the offering Micah holds between his hands. The entire production is over in less than five seconds, and yet I know it will scar the majority of us for life.

Our driver laughs and thankfully rolls down the windows. “Bruh! Sick catch! And don’t worry about the hat. It’s not mine. I stole it from my brother after he kissed my girlfriend last week. Poetic justice, right?” He signals a turn. “There’s a trash can at the end of this street. I’ll pull up so you can toss it. But I think I’ll snap a pic first—ya know, to offer Dillan some closure.”

Horrified at, well, everything that’s transpired up to this point, I eye Micah, who is obviously trying his hardest not to gag at the smell wafting in the back seat despite the added airflow.

“That’s not how closure works,” Micah says in a decidedly puny voice.

“What’s that?” our driver asks as he pulls up to the curb and hands back a stack of McDonald’s napkins to clean Hattie’s face.

“Nothing,” Micah replies as I reach across Hattie and drop the used napkins into said closure cap.

“I’m so, so sorry about this, Micah,” I whisper.

His nod is subtle yet concentrated as our driver opens his door for him to make a smooth exit and transfer to the garbage can.

The minute we’re driving again, Hattie pushes up to a sitting position and rests her head on my shoulder.

“Sunny Bear? Do you think I’m a b-b-b-ad mom?” Her question is so slurred and pained, my stomach cramps.

“Of course I don’t. You’re a wonderful mother.”

“But what if ... what if my kids choose Fran-chessa?” It takes me a second to interpret her brutal pronunciation of Francesca’s name.

“That won’t happen. Your kids adore you.”

“They adore her, too. Just like they adore her big Greek family and her big Greek house, and soon they’ll love her big Greek wedding, too.” A sob breaks from her throat. “He’s marrying her, Raegan. He asked a twenty-four-year-old to marry him in front of my kids.”

My insides scream with outrage. “Oh, Hattie. No.”

“What if ... what if he takes them from me forever?”

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