Page 8 of Tell Me You Love Me

“Read the offer!” She taps at her computer keyboard, theclick-clackricocheting through the line. “Read it, consider it. Then think about what that money could do for you now that you’ve moved. You could buy a shoe box in New York, sure, but you could buy an entire house out there in the sticks. Mortgage free. And your mom isn’t doing so well, so having a little extra cash in the bank can only be a good thing.”

“Oh, good. Business discussions, with a side of emotional manipulation. I love it when that happens.”

She clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “You’re obtuse on purpose.”

“No, I’m just not interested in talking deals with an editor who lacks any semblance of a spine.”

“Alana—”

“I’ll call you sometime next week to go over the offer. But I doubt I’ll accept it. Marianne was adamant that the hero change, and now she’s just letting it go. She was wrong in both instances, and that’s two strikes too many in my eyes.”

“Is that a…” Franky’s voice trembles. “Mom! Is that a llama?”

Oh god. Here we go.“I’ll talk to you later, Helen.” I end our call and swallow the lump of nerves nestled in the base of my throat, then I slow the car as a million memories sprint forward and smack me in the face. This is the road I’ve walked too many times to count. The mailbox shaped like a—God help me—sheep, perched out front.

Our fence isn’t like Dave Dingus’, where that rich old coot has money for days and a vested interest in keeping his animals inside his property. Our fences are more of a gentle suggestion. Rotting, white timber with missing sections, a llama thoroughfare, and animal droppings on the road.

My breathing grows thicker as we approach, and horrifyingly, tears itch the backs of my eyes.

I was so sure I would never come back here. Certain that New York would be where I live out my days, raising a son and writing books between his appointments.

It broke my heart to leave Plainview. But I was convinced I’d never return.

And yet…

“Is that…” Franky stretches his seatbelt and leans forward, setting his forearms on the front seats as I turn off the road and onto a potholed dirt driveway. “Mom, is that arooster?”

“Mmhm.” I clamp my lips shut and blink-blink-blink to clear my eyes. “The fact Grandma has a rooster isn’t even a surprise to me, honey. But that it looks like Whacky II is just…” I release a long breath, shaking my head from side to side. “He has to be nearly twelve years old, at least.”

“His name is Whacky?”

“Whacky II, actually. Whacky the First had an unfortunate ending that involved fireworks and bad choices.”

He sputters. “What?”

“We didn’t hurt him on purpose. I swear. It’s not as psychotic as it sounds. But me and…” Don’t saythatname. Don’t even think it. “A friendof mine. We were playing with fireworks one summer, though we knew we shouldn’t. We had a whole crate of them, and believe it or not, we were being pretty careful. But one of my friends had a habit of playing with a magnifying glass back then. He enjoyed studying the bugs and stuff on the ground. Grandma Bitsy called us inside for lunch because it was blistering hot that day, and I figure she felt bad for us. My friend set his magnifying glass down in the sun, which kind of started a tiny fire, which, I guess, spread to the crate. The fuses had been lit and…” I grit my teeth, maneuvering our car around the potholes that’ve grown exponentially deeper in the ten years I’ve been away. “Well, we saw Whacky go up. We never saw him come down again.”

“That’s horrible!” And yet, my sweet baby boy giggles. “You blew up a rooster!”

“Unintentionally, and I’m definitely not proud of it. It’s not a fun story to tell, honey. It’s a cautionary tale. Don’t play with fireworks, fire, or gallus gallus domesticus.”

“Gallus gallus domesticus?”

The fact I know those words, even after all this time, is both comforting and a kick to the stomach. A reason to smile while simultaneously, a reason to fight the panic clawing at my throat. “Being here is a bit like time travel,” I murmur. “Details I thought I’d forgotten, memories I’d long ago set aside, just jump right back to the front of my brain like no time has passed at all. My friend had a habit of calling things by their scientific name.” I peek into the rear-view mirror, finding Franky’s smiling eyes. “You do that sometimes, too. Gallus gallus domesticus.”

“Did you know the scientific name for llamas is Lama Glama? They’re part of the camel family.”

“Er… nope.” I white-knuckle the steering wheel, squeezing tighter the closer we come to the house where memories and reality clash, taking whatwasand making it whatis. This house used to be a crisp white back around my senior year, but time and the scorching sun have transported it to a dull, almost-brown. The crepe myrtle I planted the year before graduation now casts a shadow over the yard, with bright pink blossoms floating on the breeze and branches that shield a grouping of sheep.

Not red. Not blue. And definitely not purple.

“Do you see that row of orange trees?” I point them out as we pass and swallow the nerves building in my throat. “I dug the holes for those. Me and a shovel, and a couple of my friends, heckling and throwing orange peels every time I cussed them out.”

“How did you have orange peels if the trees hadn’t grown yet?”

My lips curl higher because my baby is nothing if not a logical thinker.

“And why did they throw things at you? Did you punch them for it?”

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