Page 92 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

Next week is going to suck.

At least I have a long weekend to work up morale.

“Whose truck is that?” Owen asks as I park next to a big black truck that’s just as broody and space-taking as its owner.

I already know who the truck belongs to. I’ve seen it every day in the parking lot with mine.

“That’d be your uncle Holt’s.” I use the excuse of gathering my things to not look at my son.

“Cool,” Owen says cooly. “Do you like him?”

“I don’t know him.”

“You’ve worked with him for a week.”

I sigh and give my son my eyes. “He’s nice.”

Owen’s face doesn’t change. “You told Memaw he’s an asshole.”

“Owen!” I mean to scold his language, but find myself asking, “If you know what I think of him, why are you grilling me, huh?”

Owen shrugs. “Why is he an asshole?”

This time, I scold the language. “Language, bud.”

“Did he do something to you?”

There’s an intensity emanating from my little boy that feels far heftier than someone of his years should be able to emit. It gives me pause. I decide to be as honest as I can with him. “Your uncle Holt was once a big part of mine and your fathers’ lives. We—we—well, we grew apart. He got famous and we stayed here. We had you and Mabel, and we never really put any effort into healing everything we broke.” I wince, because as honest as I’m trying to be, it sounds like a crock of poop to my ears. I can only imagine what Owen is taking from it.

Still, my son nods like he gets something he can’t possibly understand. Then he asks, “Do you think I’ll like him?”

“I do.” I smile, and God, it hurts.

There’s a nugget of worry in Owen’s eyes. He asks quietly, “Think he’ll like me?”

“Oh.” I lean across the console to press a kiss to my son’s temple. “He’d be an absolute idiot not to.”

“I’m serious, Mom. Grandma says he’s a lot like Dad.”

What sin did I commit in my past life that God saw fit to hurt me like this?

“He’ll love you, Owen. And he’ll like you.” I tug on the handle of my door. “Let’s get inside, okay?”

Owen follows wordlessly to Herman and Elise’s front door. We’re just about to open the door when we hear a familiar shriek followed by a terribly manly roar.

Owen’s stoic expression—the one he’s worn since becoming the man of the house—cracks just a little. “I think he likes Mabel.”

I can’t reply beyond the rocks in my throat. Owen opens the door in time for me to see Holt bend down low to catch my fleeing daughter around her waist, swinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He digs tickling fingers into her ribs, and her shrieks morph into a hysterical giggle.

My eyes drift from his tickling hand to his eyes that are already pinned to me. My heart kicks into my throat, knocking the rocks loose as everything falls into the pit of my stomach. I swallow air and cough to clear my throat.

Holt’s head kicks back just a bit as he takes me in. I already know he sees straight through me, just like he always has.

His eyes slide to Owen, and he cocks a grin that, well, honestly—it’s like an alarm for my catatonic ovaries.

“Hey, my man,” Holt says around a face full of purple tutu. He comes close to swing the tickle hand out to Owen, keeping Mabel pinned to his shoulder with the other. My son shakes Holt’s hand for the first time, careful to keep out of Mabel’s kicking range.

God, my heart is being butchered inside my chest and no one sees it.