Page 83 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“That was me. I was young and stupid. I’ve already apologized to your dad, and he’s accepted it.” I could feel an edge creeping into my voice. This kid had no business discussing my relationship with Joe, even if he was his father.

“But you hurt him,” Bug said.

“I did.”

“I don’t want you doing it again,” he said. “I don’t want my dad hurt.” His right hand closed into a fist, but then he released it.

“I won’t. Like I said. Just friends. Once he leaves here, we’ll exchange Christmas cards and that will be it.”

“Promise?”

I tried to think of an answer that didn’t commit me to anything.

“Ready to go?” Joe asked.

“I sure am,” I said, turning toward him.

“Good, ‘cuz I’m starving again. Anyone up for a cup of coffee and a slice of huckleberry pie when we get back to town?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bug said.

“Sure,” I said, trouble rumbling in my belly. I did not want a pie. Not in a diner, not in a café. I did not want pie.

No way.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Where’s Joe?” Kathleen asked as we had a second cup of coffee on the couch while Liz took her shower.

“Spending time with his son. Then he says he needs to catch up on his writing.”

“Still friends?”

“Of course. We’re going to church tomorrow.”

“Twice in a month?” Kathleen asked. “Has anyone been warned?”

“Ha.”

“And when we get back to Montana in a year?” Kathleen asked. “Will Joe be waiting for you?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m sure some other woman will snatch him up and treat him the way he deserves.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

I idly watched the neighbors undo their hookups and pull in their sliders as I sipped my coffee. Life on the road had a different quality to it than life in the Bay Area, or even small town Montana. People were much more self-contained. When they were ready, they moved on, and no one questioned why. Idiosyncrasies were on full display. In some places, so were politics, but more and more RV parks were banning political signs or flags.

I was grateful. I wanted to get to know people without being subjected to their ideology first.

“Di?” Kathleen asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m damaged, I think.”

“Damaged like a cow-kicked-the-irrigation-pipe damaged? Or something else.”

“Something else.” I stared at the local news rag I’d intended to peruse before Kathleen embarked on this in-depth conversation. It was the first time I’d considered the possibility that thirty years with a man who picked at everything I did had left some lasting wounds that weren’t easily scarred over.

“Want to talk about it?” Kathleen said.

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