Page 12 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“I’m not even going to explain how that compares to what youdid.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but when our gazes clash he stops.

“I’ll make it easy for you. Bo, are you married?” I ask, calm.

He pushes off from the door and rubs a hand down the side of his face. “Yes, but—”

I cut him off. “Did you fuck me in the back of this van last night?” I demand, stunned at how effortlessly the question rolls off my tongue.

His eyes widen.

“Birdie, it’s not wha—”

I cut him off with a glare. “It’s exactly what I think, Bo.”

I back up slowly, throw it in drive, and leave him standing in the middle of the driveway.

Three

The mountains of NorthCarolina are a dream in June. With the windows down as I drive, the colors of twilight seem everlasting on the horizon. I imagine every word spoken today blowing out to live the rest of their lives in the velvety green hills and valleys around me.

I grew up in the next town over, Rocky Ridge, but now Laurel Hills is home. It’s small, with a little downtown and a handful of restaurants and shops, but no matter where you stand—mountains. Less than an hour to the busy city of Asheville, it feels like another world.

I park outside of my small white house on the edge of town and let out a long full breath that holds the weight of my disastrous day.

On the steps of my porch sits Huck—an eight-year-old foster kid who lives next door with a couple I’ve always just known as Miss Alice and Mr. Steve. They’ve had foster kids rotating in and out for the years I’ve lived here, but Huck is the first one that I’vegotten close to. Since the day he moved in nine months ago, we’ve been friends.

“Hey, Huck,” I say as I sit next to him.

“Hey, Birdie,” he says, a little too loudly.

“How was your day?”

“How was your day?” he parrots.

Right.

I smile. “What I meant to say was, I wonder how Huck’s day was.”

He looks at me. “Huck had a good day. I made this robot out of Legos.” He holds up a colorful blocky creation. “And sometimes a female praying mantis will eat her mate.”

I widen my eyes dramatically. “Well, it sounds like a praying mantis can have a day worse than I had.”

“Birdie had a bad day.” He frowns.

“Birdie had a bad day,” I say with an exhale, looking at the bubblegum sky.

A bark followed by a whimper and the excited tapping of claws comes from the other side of the door behind us.

“George Strait is barking,” Huck says.

“I wonder if Huck would like to walk George Strait with me.” I tilt my head toward the door with a smile.

“Huck would,” he says without making eye contact.

When I open the door, the goldendoodle pounces out of the house and licks Huck on the face. He lets out a rare, loud laugh. It would sound awkward and out of place coming from any other kid, but with Huck it’s liquid gold.

It’s our near-nightly routine. Me coming home, Huck waiting for me, and the walk that always follows.

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