Page 32 of Now to Forever

“No,” I say, keeping my eyes on his crotch until a couple kayakers on the lake pass by, gawking at Ford’s bare ass that’s facing them. I smile—wide—and wave enthusiastically.

“Ledger’s finest, y’all!” I shout. “Here to serve and protect.”

Their laughter dances across the water in a wobbly echo.

Ford turns, gives what I imagine is both a humiliated and apologetic smile before looking back at me with clenched teeth. “I was thinking,” he grits out. “Maybe Wren could keep coming back.And, I don’t know, you can talk to her. Tell her about your life. She needs help, and she won’t talk to me or anyone.”

“You want me to help your kid?” I laugh, unamused, the irony of the situation neither lost on me nor missing the chance to karate chop me in the throat. “I grew up in a dumpster fire, Ford, I don’t know the first thing about kids.”

“But you know about dumpster fires, Scotty. Her mom is an addict. In prison! And doesn’t give a shit about her!” When his voice raises, he takes a steadying breath. “She told you she was a poet. Please.”

I look him over. Naked as a jaybird except for a pair of socks.

“I’m leaving. As soon as this place sells,” I remind him. “I’m fixing this place, selling it, and leaving Ledger.”

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. You’re leaving. I’ll take whatever you’ll give.”

I pick at my fingernails, disinterested. “What’s in it for me?”

His knees bend with a kind of anxious bob. “You’ll have help with the house. Wren. Me—I’ll help.”

“Hm.” I don’t really want anything. And yet, I walk toward him—slowly—keeping my eyes locked with his for the four steps it takes for me to get less than a foot away from his naked body. I rake my gaze down him before kneeling to scoop up his clothes. “These will do.”

I turn, stroll to the house, toss the clothes inside on the floor, and let the door slam behind me without looking back.

“Scotty!” His shout of my name is muffled through the door where my back is pressed. “Are you kidding me right now?”

He knows I’m not. If I knew where a lighter was, I would have set the clothes on fire in front of him.

Another muffled shout: “Give me my damn clothes!”

I peel myself from the door and stand at one of the many windows that fill the wall. His panicked eyes flick to mine. I smile and wave through the glass, mouthing,I can’t hear you, cupping a hand around my ear and shooting him a helpless grin.

Molly wags her tail from her position next to me. In her mouth, a destroyed pillow.

Bitch.

For a second, Ford’s pissed-off scowl makes me think he might bulldoze the door down, but instead, he does the last thing I expect: He drops his hands and smirks when my eyes slip to the prize between his thighs.My, my.I didn’t think he had it in him. Hands on his hips he shouts, “You could have just asked, Viper.”

Despite the heat crawling up my neck, I laugh, but when he turns to walk away, it dies. Along with my ability to breathe.

Because it’s not the news that Wren has a mom in prison, or the fact that Ford stripped naked with a body like that I’ll be thinking of when I lie in bed tonight. It’s not even how absurd it is he thinks I’m at all capable of helping his kid. It’s the single strip of music notes he has tattooed down his spine that I’d recognize anywhere.

The exact same ones my brother had.

Ten

Wrenreturnsamute.She pets Molly, sits quietly on an upside-down five-gallon bucket, and watches me like a creepy owl while I struggle to rip up the shag carpet. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt. In a T-shirt, I’m sweating like Vince the real estate agent.

As much as I want to, I don’t force conversation. I sat with too many counselors and people “trying to help” after my parents were so predictably them and my brother started blasting off the rails, I once thought of sewing my lips shut. I get how she feels: people who don’t know, don’t know.

June, as it turned out, was the only one who took a hint, which is why our friendship has lasted. When we were kids and I was in stained and secondhand Bongo jeans and ate free school lunches without a parent in sight, she never asked. Even now, when I don’t want to talk about it—which is ever—we don’t talkabout it.

I struggle to get the carpet up; Wren’s quiet. Tom Petty’s voice sends an echoed “I Won’t Back Down”through the house; she leaves.

It’s the same the next day.

And the next.

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