brown eyes. Homework. Might as well be in jail.
“Might as well be in jail,” he said aloud, turning his face now in challenge.
“Yeah, they play a lot of baseball, eat a lot of butterscotch sundaes, in the joint.”
“But I’ve got nothing to do at home,” he said—the desperate lament of every nine-year-old.
“I’ll give you something to do,” Savannah shot back—the typical response of every frustrated parent. And when she heard that come out of her mouth she nearly groaned. “I’m sorry, Bry, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and it’s just not a good night for a sleep-over.”
“I could’ve stayed at Con’s. His mother wouldn’t care.”
Direct hit, she thought grimly as she turned up the lane. “Well, yours does, Ace, and you’re stuck with me. You can start by taking out the trash you didn’t take out this morning, cleaning that black hole that passes as your room, then studying your math so you don’t end up in summer school.”
“Great.” The minute she stopped the car, he slammed out. He muttered another comment about it being worse than jail that had smoke coming out of her ears.
“Bryan Morningstar.” His name lashed out. When he pivoted back, they stood glaring at each other, angry color riding high on each set of cheekbones, eyes almost black with passionate temper. “Why the hell are you so much like me?” she demanded. She threw her face up to the sun. “I could have had a nice, quiet, well-mannered little girl if I’d tried really hard. Why did I think I’d like having some snotty, bad-tempered boy with big feet?”
It made his lips twitch. “Because then you’d have to take out the trash yourself. A girl would whine and say it was too messy.”
“I could take the trash out,” she said consideringly. “In fact, I think I will, after I put you in it.” She made a grab, but he danced back, laughing at her.
“You’re too old to catch me.”
“Oh, yeah?” She streaked forward, pounded up the bank after him. He stood hooting at her, taunting. Which was his mistake. She snagged him, making the catch more from her advantage of reach and experience than from speed, and tumbled with him to the grass.
“Who’s old, smart mouth?”
“You are.” He shrieked with laughter as her fingers dug mercilessly into his ribs. “You’re almost thirty.”
“I am not. Take it back.” She whipped him into a headlock, rubbed her knuckles over his hair. “Take it back, and do the math, Einstein. What’s twenty-six from thirty?”
“Nothing,” he shouted. “Zero.” Then, fearing he might wet his pants if she kept tickling, he surrendered. “It’s four, okay? It’s four.”
“Remember that. And remember who can still take you down.” She pulled him back against her, hugged him so suddenly, so fiercely, he blinked. “I love you, Bryan. I love you so much.”
“Jeez, Mom.” He wriggled in mortification. “I know.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
He rolled his eyes, but trickles of remorse found their way through the embarrassment. “I guess I’m sorry, too.”
“You and Connor can have a sleep-over next weekend. I promise.”
“Okay, that’s cool.” When she didn’t release him, he frowned. But it wasn’t so bad, letting her hold him—since none of the guys were around to see. She smelled nice, and her arms were soft. There were flickers of memory of being rocked and soothed.
He was simply too young to do anything but take them for granted. She’d always been there. She always would. He let his head rest on her shoulder, and didn’t feel like squirming when she stroked his hair.
“Could we maybe cook out on the grill later?”
“Sure. Want superburgers?”
“Yeah, and french fries.”
“What’s a superburger without fries?” she murmured, then sighed. “Bryan, has Con said anything to you about his father?”
She felt her son go still, and pressed a light kiss to his hair. “Is it a secret?”
“Sort of.”
“I don’t want you to betray a confidence. I found out today that Connor’s father used to hit his mother. I thought if Con had talked to you about it, you might want to talk to me.”
He’d wanted to, ever since Connor had told him. But Connor had cried some—even though Bryan had pretended not to notice. And a guy just didn’t tell his mother things like that.
“Con’s said he’s in jail for hitting her. Con said he used to hurt her real bad, and he drank a lot and gave her bruises and everything. They’re getting divorced.”
“I see.” She’d seen plenty of men who were Joe Dolin’s type in her life, but that didn’t stop her from despising them. “Did he hit Con, too? And Emma?”
“Not Emma.” Here was another dicey part, but Bryan heard himself blurting it out before he could stop. “But he hit Con. Not when his mom was around and could see. He’d call him names and shove him. He said Con was a sissy ’cause he liked to read books and write stories. Con’s no sissy.”
“Of course he’s not.”
“He’s just real smart. He doesn’t hardly have to study to get the answers right. But he doesn’t raise his hand in class very much. The teacher calls on him anyway.” As he stared off into the woods, Bryan’s face darkened with rage. “Some of the kids give him a hard time about things. About his father, and how he’s teacher’s pet and how he can’t throw a baseball very far. But they back off when I’m around.”
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