Page 13 of When Wildflowers Bloom

With the dog on a leash, we fall into step together on the sidewalk, Huck careful to avoid every crack.

When he and I walk the dog, sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t—he decides. I like the company; he doesn’t always want the conversation.

“Huck wonders why George Strait is named that,” he says after we walk quietly for a few minutes.

“George Strait was my mom’s favorite singer,” I reply. Like they always do, the words teleport me to a time where “I Just Want to Dance with You” plays on a CD in the living room, and my dad twirls my mom around for no reason other than she loves it.

The dog barks at a squirrel and pops the memory.

“Huck wonders why Birdie had a bad day.” He looks up at me as we stop at some trees where George Strait sniffs and marks his territory.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking of how Veda and Bo sent bulldozers barreling over my life in the last twenty-four hours. I have no idea how to explain any of that to a kid. “I had a bad day because some people don’t understand me.”

“Some people don’t understand me too.”

I look down at him and try to remember who I was at eight. I wasn’t who I am now, that’s for damn sure. I was an ordinary kid who had a mom who wore floral wrap dresses and spun around the kitchen to country music while she baked cookies. I didn’t know about troubles or what it meant to be misunderstood. Now, atthirty-seven, my life is so different—I’mso different—and I can’t imagine grappling with these same feelings at his age.

His tiny shoulders carry a heavy weight, one I desperately wish I could lift for him.

I reach my hand out to him. “At least we have each other.”

He eyes my hand, like he isn’t sure if he’s going to take it—but today he does. “And George Strait.”

“And George Strait.”

“The praying mantis can turn its head 180 degrees,” he says, jumping over another crack.

“That’s impressive. I wonder what else Huck can tell me about them.”

“Some praying mantises can eat hummingbirds.”

My eyes widen as I look down at him. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“Why on earth would they do that?” he repeats as we stop at a small field in the neighborhood, taking the dog off the leash to throw a ball to him.

I let out a breath, frustrated with myself for being so distracted I can’t speak right. Smiling, I try again. “I wonder why a praying mantis would eat a poor little hummingbird.”

He laughs. “Because they’re hungry, Birdie.”

I throw a ball the dog chases. “I guess you’re right, but that’s such a sad thought. I wonder what else you know about them.”

And for the rest of the walk, he tells me more than I want to know about the insect. For those few minutes, despite the unusual topic of conversation, we have each other.

Lying in bed, I fight sleep. Again.

Trying to name the mix of emotions that sit on my chest is like trying to pluck a single grain of sand out of a mud puddle.

Furious that Bo lied to me.

Annoyed by how him opening the door had the power it did.

Devastated that even if the first two things weren’t true, my life wouldn’t allow for anything different. Time wouldn’t allow for anything different.

Nauseous over how much his touch still lives on my skin like a phantom limb.

Humiliated about, well, everything.

I suck my cheeks in as I stare at the dark ceiling.Tomorrow will be better.

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