Page 22 of Someone Like Me
Ergo, Zoloft.
“Shit,” I mutter aloud. My supply runs out tomorrow. “What the hell am I—”
“Drew?”
I freeze, my hands still covering my eyes. It’s her. Even though I’ve only heard it once, I recognize her voice.
Evie Lalonde.
I drop my hands and blink at the vision of her crossing her lawn, flanked by a sleek, golden dog. And her legs — long, lean, and mostly bare in those light blue shorts — move in fleet strides.
“Are you okay?” she calls across our yards, and now I can see she’s frowning as she approaches the fence.
How do I answer that? No, I’m definitely not okay. That’s probably obvious.
She reaches the fence, her eyes sweeping over my face. I compose my most stoic expression. Prison is the best place for honing a stoic expression. Unless it’s anger, any other emotion is a liability.
Except humor. Laughter is its own shield, but there’s no way I could summon a laugh right now. And if I could, I’d probably look insane. Hanging my head one minute, and cracking up the next.
Evie tilts her chin to one side, seeming to scrutinize me. “Bad day?”
And it’s the shape of her mouth that undoes me. She’s not smiling. Not really. But there’s something soft and friendly about the line of her mouth. A compassionate concern that’s disarming.
Yes,disarming.That’s a good word for her. The look of her takes away not only any weapons I might carry but any protections as well. She’s disarmoring.dis-shielding.I feel like I’ve been left wide open.
I shrug. “I’ve had better.”
Her eyes brighten. I wonder if she’s questioning the likelihood of that. I mean, I just got out of prison. Exactly how many better days could there have been?
A smile spreads over her face, and she tucks a springy, dark curl behind one ear. “Tell me. What constitutes a good day for Drew Moroux?”
The question takes me completely off guard. On so many fronts. For one, I’m almost knocked over sideways by the fact that she’s asking. For another, I have no idea anymore.
I could tell her what made up a good day at Angola. That’s easy. First of all, the best days would have to be between late October and early April. Anytime when the lows dip below seventy. When you can work in the auto shop without sweat running into your eyes. Because then you’ve got to wipe your eyes to clear them. And there’s always, and I mean always, grease on your hands.
Every day in the summer, I’d leave the shop looking like barbecued raccoon.
Another mark of a good day on The Farm was gumbo. It might turn up on the menu when there was a nip in the air. The kitchen crew at Agnola doesn’t mess around. Cooking is serious business. And The Farm is called The Farm for a reason.
People on the outside pay high dollar for farm-to-table cuisine. Well, inmates raise and grow almost everything they eat. Of course, our farm-to-table was nothing fancy. Beans and rice made up a good chunk of what we got. Still, I never minded beans and rice.
“Nothing special,” I answer finally. “A day that’s not too hot and good food on the table.”
In response, Evie Lalonde shades her eyes, glances up at the noon-day sky, and wrinkles her nose. “I guess today doesn’t count as not too hot.”
I shake my head, feeling the sweat trickle down the back of my neck. “Nope.” I’m sure my T-shirt is darkened with perspiration. Some of it’s from the heat; it’s as humid as dog breath, a typical September day in Louisiana. But some of it, I know, is from the shock of seeing Anthony’s car. That Supra in the garage is like a finger pointing right at me.
You. You did this,it says.
I shudder with the thought, and Grandma Q’s neighbor doesn’t miss it.
A line appears between her pretty brows. “You sure you’re all right? How long have you been sitting out here in the sun?”
I wipe the heel of my hand across my slick forehead. “Not that long,” I say, wanting to brush off her concern.
But Evie Lalonde is not easily brushed off.
“You should move over here,” she says, gesturing to the two plastic Adirondack chairs someone dragged beneath the live oak in Grandma Q’s back yard. They’re just feet away from her.
