Page 64 of Dreadful

“Little town in Florida,” Troy says, taking another bite of pie, the crust flaking under his fork. “Ever been? Incredible surf if you know the hidden breaks. You boys should try it sometime.”

I abandon my fork, bits of pie crust stuck to its tines. “My mom’s from Florida, too.”

Troy pauses mid-chew, eyes widening. “No shit? Where?”

“Oh, uh, Palmetto Ridge.” The name feels dusty on my tongue. Mom always said she’d die before she ever went back there, but she never told me why.

He blinks, then wipes a smear of filling from his chin. “Are you fuckin’ with me, kid? We used to run around with plenty of Palmetto girls.” He leans back, mouth quirking into a grin. “What’s her name?”

“Marissa Hale.”

Troy’s grin falters before it blooms wide. “Well, fuck me.” His eyes find mine, but it feels more like he’s looking through me than at me. “I can see it now. Yeah, I remember Marissa alright. Your ma still know how to have a good time?”

“She's dead.”

Once, those two words might’ve carved me open, but now they lie flat between us, cold as the metal of my fork.

Rafe’s fingers flex on my thigh, before he softens his grip, brushing his thumb in a few soft strokes.

Troy’s grin vanishes, replaced by a low whistle as he shakes his head. “Tough break, kid. What about your old man? He from Palmetto too?”

“I don't know.” I drag the tip of my index finger over the arch of my eyebrow—the one feature she claimed I got from my dad. “She used to say he was a shooting star. She saw him blaze across her sky, made a wish on him, and couldn’ t hold on no matter how hard she tried.”

The words used to leave this ugly little knot of shame behind whenever I said them out loud, like there had to be something wrong with me if half the reason I existed could disappear without ever looking back.

There's still a faint echo of it somewhere inside me, but I've carried enough of my mother's shit for several lifetimes.

Coco reaches over and pats the back of my hand. “Don't worry, honey. Most fathers are useless. You're probably better off without yours. Just ask my boys.”

Gage makes a low sound of agreement as he settles into his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Reminds me of the shit you used to say to me, Ma.”

“One for all of us. Ain’t that right?” Cruz leans forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

Coco's mouth curves. “Because it was true.”

“What was Gage's?” Cruz asks, already starting to grin. “The hummingbird?”

Gage lifts his fork and jabs it lightly at Cruz. “Don't fucking start.”

“A hummingbird,” Coco confirms. “Pretty to look at, always flitting from one thing to the next, and gone the second something shinier caught his eye.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Right.”

“Bottle rocket,” Cruz offers.

I look at him. “A bottle rocket?”

“Pretty, loud, exciting for about five seconds,” Coco says. “Then gone before you know what happened.”

Cruz lifts his glass. “Could be worse.”

“Oak tree,” Rafe says.

Coco smiles. “Strong and steady. The kind you think will be there forever.”

Rafe gives a quiet huff. “Clearly you misjudged that one.”

Gage snorts.