Page 191 of Always Love You More

Finally, I make it to the porch, knocking before I step back to wait. A couple of minutes pass before the door creaks open and I’m greeted by a familiar face.

“Jameson,” Mrs. Richardson beams, tipping her head back so her gaze can meet mine.

The Richardsons have been our neighbors for my whole life. But, for most of it, it’s just been her. Mr. Richardson died years ago, and they never had any kids. So, I’ve always helped her out—fixed the things that needed fixing, mowed her lawn, things like that.

Mrs. Richardson is the kind of person who doesn’t seem to belong in a neighborhood like this one. She must be nearly eighty now and is one of the only people I’ve ever met who seems to be all the way good. She’s also one of the only people who doesn’t seem to see me asme. She doesn’t look at me like I’m no good, even though she’s fully aware of where I come from.WhoI come from.

“You look like you’re freezing,” she says, waving me inside.

I shake my head. “I’m fine. I was just coming to tell you I can shovel your driveway.”

She purses her lips. “Absolutely not.”

“But I—”

Stepping to the side and opening the door wider, she cuts me off. “Not until you come inside and get warmed up.”

I dip my chin, knowing she won’t take no for an answer.

“Good.” She smiles, leading me into the kitchen.

I tower over her small frame as I follow her inside, my stomach growling when I smell the soup bubbling on the stove.

“Sit,” she says, motioning to the table.

I do as she asks, sliding into the worn wooden chair, and watch as she moves around the kitchen. She’s slower now than she waswhen I was younger, and her hands shake as she sets down a bowl of soup in front of me.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she places a plate piled with fresh bread next to the bowl then brings over a butter dish.

My lips tip up as I remove the top, the handle made of a painted ceramic bee sitting on a hive.

Mrs. Richardson’s kitchen is bright yellow and covered in bumble bee knick-knacks. It matches the rest of her house that’s overflowing with the kind of decorations you’d find at a yard sale.

She lowers herself into the seat next to me and watches until I dip my bread in the soup and take a bite.

“So,” she starts, “how’ve you been?”

I nod. “Good.”

“Jameson,” she prompts, not buying my easy answer.

I’ve never talked to her about my life before. Not really, anyway. Although, I’m sure she knows enough from living in this town and from the things she’s heard over the years, being next door. She’s never brought it up outright but has always made it clear that she’s here for me if I should ever need her.

After my old man died, she showed up at my house with a plate of cookies, pulled me into a hug, and reminded me that she’s always just a knock away.

I take another bite of my bread. “I’m good, really.”

Her brows furrow, but she doesn’t push me. “And your mother?”

“Better,” I tell her.

“You know you can talk to me,” she says, placing her hand on my arm, and I fight the urge to flinch. “You’ve had to take on quite a lot for a boy your age. There’s no shame in needing a little help.”

I attempt to brighten my face, to make my voice reassuring. “Thank you, Mrs. Richardson, really. But we’re managing fine.”

“Well,” she says, “you remember what I always tell you?”

I nod. “Just a knock away.”