Wes drove me to pick up Grace from the airport during lunch. We didn’t talk about the morning, about my dad and the money he owes, or about the truth Wes finally shared with his brothers. We talked about unimportant things, both of us craving a little normal, I think. Wes asked what I planned on wearing for my Girl Strong photoshoot, and I talked about how maybe the photographer will show me a few things I can use for the next assignment due in my photography class.

Wes isn’t in the class anymore. He’s got study hall instead, partially because he registered so late and also because his counsellor insisted that the school find ways to “ease his transition.”

They have no idea how long Wes’s transition has been going on. It started the day Shawn paired him and me together. From that day forward, he would never just be a boy on his own, he would be the boy responsible for the girl his caretaker made him believe was important. Somehow, though, over time, we’ve both become important to each other for real.

I knew Grace understood who he was the moment Wes shook her hand. I caught the flinch in her face, and the small tick of her nerves when recognition hit. Her eyes caught mine on their way to the curb where Wes’s truck sat, and her hands laid flat on her lap, fingers rigid, the entire drive to my house as I sat between her and Wes.

She and I didn’t have much time alone before I had to rush back to school, and my father was waiting in the school lot to take me to my physical therapy as soon as my last class let out. He didn’t talk much either, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m the one somehow commanding everyone to silence, or if people are just under the delusion that not talking about what’s happening will actually stop time from marching forward.

Unable to take it anymore, I turn in my seat as my dad drives us home, lifting myself and dropping my body into the vinyl with a heavy thud.

“Yes? I see you’re pouting about something, Josselyn?” My dad blinks to glance at me sideways, then blinks again, his eyes back on the road.

“I’m not four, dad. We need to talk about what’s going on…I need to be a part of plans that impact our family,” I say.

“You mean like when you called Grace and invited her to stay with us? I really enjoyed the way we discussed that,” he says, his words dripping with sarcasm, his sentences clipped.

“That’s different. I had no idea why you were being hauled away in a squad car,” I explain.

“I understand you were freaked out from the car crashing into yours, but…”

I cut him off.

“Not freaked out, Dad. I was afraid. Fear—heart-pounding worried,” I say, my voice loud. I relive not just the sounds of the car crashing into metal, the lights racing closer to my house, and the roar of the engine, but the absolute panic that rushed my system when I saw the suspicion in the officers’ eyes, when I knew they suspected my father of doing it. I was so certain that we were going to get torn apart. We’d only just gotten back together, despite living under the same roof for my entire life.

“You were afraid that they were arresting me?” He glances at me from the side again, eyes wide and brows raised, this time studying me for a few seconds longer as we idle at a stoplight. When I was a kid, I would get excited at this light because it meant that we were only four minutes from home. Today, though, I hate how close everything is in this stupid small town. I’m in no hurry to get to a place where people want to hurt us while we live under police surveillance. It’s only a matter of time before the entire school knows the latest chapter in the saga of my life.

I don’t answer my dad, and eventually his brow falls heavy and he turns his attention back to the light about to change to green.

“Borrowing money, even from the lowest form of people…it isn’t illegal, Joss,” he says, and I can’t help but watch his face closely for some sort of tell—a little slip that lets me know he’s playing at this, that he knows what I’m really getting at when I say I was worried about him being taken into custody. But he never gives me one, and that’s because he honestly doesn’t have a clue. “That’s all I did, Josselyn. I borrowed money from the wrong people. I knew the cops would see I was at work when the car was smashed and realize my alibi is true. And there’s no law that a man can’t damage his own property, so I wasn’t worried about that, and you shouldn’t be either. We’ll get this figured out. And Grace…”

He rolls his neck, his hand grabbing at it as he wiggles his head side-to-side with a pained expression. “It’s not that I’m mad you needed help and felt close enough to her to call her, it’s just that...look—she’s never really cared for me. And here I am, her granddaughter’s dad, borrowing money because I can’t take care of what’s mine. She’s just going to see a failure; she’ll judge. It’s the last thing I need.”

His nostrils flair with irritation even though his voice is trying to put out a calm vibe. It’s the same way he is on the field when one of his athletes isn’t listening.

“This is how you were when Mom left,” I say, regretting it the moment the words leave my mouth.

My dad stops the car hard at the stop sign near our house, and my palms flatten on the dash as I jerk forward. All I want is for my dad to drive through the intersection, to continue on pretending he didn’t hear what I said, but that won’t happen. I’m just like him, and I wouldn’t be able to let something like I just said go either.

“Is that what you think this is about?” he asks, shifting the car to park and leaning with his back against his door. I glance behind us when a car honks and zooms around us, but my dad doesn’t bother to.

“Just take us home. Grace is waiting,” I say, barely making eye contact with him as my head swivels to look in front of us then over my shoulder to the next car approaching that will no doubt honk and pass, too.

“You think all of this…the money borrowing, me talking to the cops…the trouble we’re in…is what? Me acting out? This…issue…it has nothing to do with your mother and how I feel about what she did to us.” He laughs through his last few words, but it isn’t the humorous type of laugh—it’s laced with fury.

“That’s not what I think at all, Dad. I think you were trying to take care of us, and things got out of hand…and when the cops had you, I wasn’t…they were…” I stammer, not sure what to say next, when my dad talks over me.

“They were what, Joss? What possibly could they be taking me in for? Did you actually think for a moment that I was the one who totaled your car? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“You were drunk!” I shout, my hands flying out in front of me, fingers stiff and hands like claws, as if I’m choking the air between us.

The wrinkle between my dad’s eyes deepens and his mouth contorts as he looks at me like I’m crazy.

“I was at work, Joss. I came home immediately. I haven’t had a drop in months. They gave me a goddamned breathalyzer…”

“I’m not talking about this time, Dad! I’m talking about then!” I interrupt, freezing his expression briefly until the words soak in.

My dad’s lips part with a heavy breath, and his chest shudders.

“Then, Dad,” I say, my voice quieter now.

His eyes remain on mine, but the fury and self-righteousness quickly erodes into regret—his for the past, and mine for the present. Clearing his throat, my dad turns back to face the wheel, rolling his window down and gesturing with his arm for the car behind us to pass. He doesn’t drive forward, instead watching for a few seconds in the rearview mirror to make sure no one else is coming.

“Who told you that?” he asks, his voice about a dozen decibels lower, confidence deflated and anger turned to shame.

I don’t answer him, and when he looks at me, my eyes dart to my lap where I tangle my hands. Wes’s story isn’t mine to tell, but in this case, our stories are aligned—they’re the same story with the same tragic end.

“That boy…” my dad says, almost in a whisper.

I glance to the side and our eyes catch for a moment, then we both look away.

“Christopher,” I say, chewing at the side of my cheek for several more seconds before I speak the connection my dad’s already made. “Wes…”

My father covers his mouth and chin with his hand, rubbing his patchy stubble with his rough fingers and tilting his head to look out at the road.

“I was trying to quit,” he says after what felt like a minute of silence. My eyes study him while he continues to look straight ahead. “When your mom left, I had been going to meetings, trying to stop. The night before that day…that’s when I found out Kevin was real, and not just some ugly suspicion I had.”

He leans forward until his forehead rests on the top of the wheel, the collar of his shirt flipped up in the back. I reach over and straighten it, leaving my hand on his upper back when I’m done. We sit like this for a long time; nearly a dozen cars pass us, and each time I hold up a hand so nobody thinks we need help.

They can’t help us. All the heroes in the universe couldn’t help the Winters family. We’re a clan of beings who can only help ourselves. I come by my faults quite honestly. They’re in my DNA.

When my dad’s shoulders begin to shake, I move my hand from one shoulder blade to the other, feeling his muscles underneath my touch. He used to be so much stronger. This life—it has worn him down.

I wait until his shaking stops before I talk.

“Wes was almost suspended today,” I say.

My dad brings his arm up to his face as he leans back in his seat, running his palm over his eyes as he sniffs in the last bits of evidence that he was ever emotionally weak.

“What did he do?” he asks, his eyes flitting to mine briefly before he looks over his shoulder and shifts the gear to pull us forward.

“He beat the crap out of Zack Ramsey for saying something pretty awful to me,” I say, deciding not to give my dad the details of what Zack said. It would make him feel worse to know some people think the fact that he almost killed me with the car once is something that they can joke about.

“They let him off, though? Even though he was fighting?” My father’s attention is back to the road, and his face is hard and stoic again. It’s his mask, and I know he needs this.

“They did. Probably because the entire world knows Zack deserves to get his ass kicked,” I say.

“You know he scored in the wrong end zone freshman year?” my dad says, a slight smile highlighting his lips. Even if he’s making this story up, it’s nice to hear.

“For real?” I ask.

“Uh huh,” he says, chuckling as our car jiggles over the curb leading to our driveway. “It was his one shot, and that idiot picked up a fumble and ran the wrong way. He tried to come out for baseball after that, and I just crossed his name off the list the second he wrote it. Told him that was my first round of cuts.”

I laugh to myself as my dad gets out of the car. His story may be embellished, but I have a feeling most of it is true. I climb out of my side, my body tired from my workout but my heart and head overcome with a calm feeling that somehow, we’re all going to be okay. My dad’s waiting for me at the front of the car, and he holds his arm out for me to slide into the comfort of his embrace as we walk. We’re getting better at things like this.

“That’s probably why Zack attacked you. Kid hates me,” he says.

“I can handle him,” I say, letting go of my dad as we reach the door. He holds it open as I slide by him and step inside.

“You can handle a lot of things, Joss,” he says, his hand falling to my shoulder and halting me. Our eyes meet, and I exhale in response, knowing that those words were meant as an apology for the things I’ve had to handle because of him.

“I hope you all are okay with eggplant. I had this new recipe, and I walked to that store up on the corner and bought a few things,” Grace says, busying herself with our mismatched pots and pans—our kitchen full of activity it hasn’t seen since my mom left, and even she rarely cooked.

“Since our dinner usually gets handed over through a window, I’d say eggplant sounds awesome,” I say, leaning over a pot with bubbling sauce. Grace waves her hand at me, shooing me away.

“Don’t touch; you’ll burn yourself,” she says. “Go wash up.”

Wash. Up.

I smirk at my dad as Grace turns back to the stovetop, and he shrugs his shoulders.

“You heard the woman,” he says. “Go wash up.”

We both laugh silently—never really having had a grandmother in the house to say grandmotherly-like phrases—but I obey, leaving them to sort through the things I know they need to say to each other alone. I spend a few minutes in the bathroom, then I hide in my room in silence, listening to my dad and Grace talk. I can’t hear everything, but the bits I do make out are respectful and kind. My dad explains about the trouble he’s in, and Grace offers to help with what she can, insisting, even after my dad refuses her money at least a dozen times. He takes it eventually, but even with her help, he’s only halfway there. And I have a feeling that loan sharks don’t work like banks, letting you make payments in good faith.

My room is growing darker as the sun falls to the back of the house, so I twist open my blinds to take in the view I’m still not used to. It’s a new guy tonight—older. Much older. I bet he’s a volunteer. I wonder how long they’ll watch over us before they’ll give up and just chalk things up to a one-time incident. My only hope is that whoever these people are my dad owes are wanted for a whole lot more, something that will make them worth law enforcement’s time.

My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my backpack, so I drag it across my bed to see who’s texting, smiling when it’s from Wes.

Two news trucks for me. You?

I breathe out a laugh, moving to the floor and dragging myself close to the window, framing my phone between the slats of the blinds and taking a photo of my geriatric bodyguard. I send the picture to Wes, zooming in so he can make out the gray-haired details.

Just this guy.

Wes writes back in a few seconds.

Calling in the big guns, huh? Joss Winters will only work with seasoned professionals.

I run my thumb over his words on my screen.

There was this one time, when I was parked at the drive-in, where we were today.

There’s a pause at the end of his text, but I can see he’s still typing. I let my other leg fall to the carpet alongside my good leg, and I slide down until my head is propped up on one arm, my phone clutched in my other hand.

I texted you to see if you wanted a Coke. I thought if you knew what I meant, and showed up, that maybe it was a sign that I was supposed to come home.

I read his words several times, each time wondering if I would have done the right thing—if I would have known what he meant and followed the clues that led me to him. I think I would have. Another text from him buzzes in my hands.

I never sent it. Too scared to. I saw you on that road near Shawn’s trailer two days later. I figured that was probably my sign.

“Joss, dinner,” my dad says, drumming his knuckles gently on my door.

“Be right there,” I say, sitting up and pulling my phone into my lap for one more message.

I don’t do subtle. I make my signs nice and obvious.

I wait for a few extra seconds to see if he writes something more, but when he doesn’t, I plug my phone in its charger and I join Grace and my dad at the kitchen table.

“So this is where you’re supposed to eat?” my dad says, winking as he slides a chair out for Grace to sit.

She laughs with her lips slightly puckered, lines around them from age and sun.

“I remember when you and Kristina bought this table, before the house…in that tiny little apartment. Thing filled up most of the space and you had to squeeze around it just to get to the bathroom,” Grace says.

My dad and I stare at the woodgrain cut in half where the table folds, both of us faking smiles. Grace sees right through us.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up…” she begins, but my dad holds out his hand.

“It’s fine,” he says, pulling the side of his mouth in tighter, forcing a bigger smile that’s still just as phony. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Grace says, staring at my father and waiting until he looks back at her.

There’s something exchanged between them on that glance—a little understanding, maybe a peace made between two outsiders both hurt badly by the same woman they loved—a daughter and a wife.

“How about you say grace, Josselyn,” my grandmother says. Her request sends a bolt through my body, and I can hear my father sniggering under his breath, glad he wasn’t the one asked. We aren’t religious, and I didn’t get the sense that Grace was with my short visit in Tucson, but I don’t want to be disrespectful either.

“I’ll…try,” I say, my voice crackling through the words.

I clear my throat and begin to pray for something to get me through this. I’d almost take another car driving into our house just to buy me time. My father awkwardly reaches his hand to grasp Grace’s open palm, and I do the same, meeting his gaze and shrugging slightly before we both reach across the table. Grace smiles at us and dips her chin, closing her eyes.

“Right…okay,” I breathe out, closing mine. “Heavenly Father…”

My prayers answered, a light knock interrupts us, coming from the front door. Without masking my joy, I untangle my hands and leap from the table.

“Oh…got it…I’ll get it,” I say, racing toward the front window and pulling the shade out to the side.

A bright light blinds me temporarily, and I let the shade fall from my hold and rub my fist in my eyes.

“Who is it?” My dad’s joined me near the door.

“I can’t tell. Our rent-a-cop is lighting up the house with his spotlight,” I say.

My dad’s eyes close a little and he leans over my shoulder, peeking for himself, but also unable to see anything. He holds his arm across my chest, as if he’s shielding me, and slowly unlocks the door, opening it just an inch or two, his arm flexed and ready to slam it shut again fast. I don’t say anything to argue with him, but if someone’s willing to drive a car into our things, I’m pretty sure they’re prepared to bust through my dad’s fifty-year-old bicep.

“It’s Wes,” he says, pulling the door open completely.

“Hey, Coach. I’m sorry I just showed up. I…umm…do you think you could wave to the cop guy out there? That light’s really annoying,” Wes says, his smile crooked to match the tilt of his hat. His clothes are wrinkled, and I can tell he probably threw them on and raced out of his bedroom the minute we finished texting.

My dad waves his arm, which results in rent-a-cop waving his light a few times, but eventually he turns it off and mutters something before getting back in his car.

“I hate this so much,” I say under my breath. Only Wes hears me, and I’m glad.

“Come on in, Wes. We were just sitting down to eat. You should join us,” my dad says.

My heart pounds nervously, because as much as Wes and my dad are comfortable together, there’s a new layer over all of us now that my dad has linked the past to the present. And even though we haven’t talked about it yet, I know that layer is there for Grace, too.

“Are you sure?” he asks, one arm hidden behind his back. I lurch to look, but he catches me and turns his body, grabbing my wrist when I try to fight my way in.

“I’m sure,” my dad says, his eyes catching Wes’s touch and his mouth falling flatter.

My dad moves back toward the dining table, but Wes and I stay near the door, a cool breeze cutting through the screen door and the sounds of crickets marking what’s left of the sun.

“I uh…I sorta did a thing,” Wes says, dipping his head so all I can see is the brim of his hat and the hint of the shy smile dusting his lips.

His hidden hand comes between us, clutching a small bouquet of pink flowers, tied together with a ribbon, a wet paper towel wrapped around the cut stems.

“They aren’t peonies. I think they’re called phlox. My mom grows them in a pot in the backyard,” he says, tipping his hat up. I catch the bashful wrinkle to his eyes, and I fall for him a little more. He holds the flowers higher, pushing them closer to me. “She said I could. I was just trying to follow your signs, and I’m pretty sure you were giving me the flowers vibe.”

My hand covers his as I take the bundle from him, leaning forward to smell the petals, already wilting slightly. It’s a sad bouquet, and Wes knows it. I love it, still.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my lips resting in a flirtatious smile. Wes’s eyes dim and his lip curls to match mine. “And phlox is a really stupid word for a flower.”

His chest shakes with his quiet laugh, and I bring the drooping bouquet up to my nose. They smell sweet.

“Grace…she’s going to want to talk more than we did earlier, when you drove from the airport,” I say, leading Wes across the living room, to the dining table filled with steaming pots and plates and napkins and silverware. It feels like a holiday, but it’s only Monday. “I’m pretty sure she knows who you are.”

Wes’s chest lifts as we approach, and he draws a quick breath, nodding slightly to me and straightening his shoulders before reaching a hand out to my grandmother.

“I’m sorry for just showing up, ma’am,” he says, and I catch my dad rolling his eyes at Wes’s formal greeting.

I fill a glass with water in the kitchen for my bouquet. When I return to the table, Grace is holding Wes’s palm in both of hers, covering the top and patting, just as she did with me when I showed up in Tucson. Her eyes narrow in on Wes’s face, her head tilting a little to the side before she reaches up with one hand and pushes the brim of his hat up just a hair.

“You shouldn’t hide eyes like that,” she says, her mouth curved slightly, as if she knows a secret. I’m certain she does. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen eyes like that, you know.”

Her hand comes to cup his face with familiarity, and her eyes dazzle looking at him. Her attention is making him nervous; I see it in the way his jaw flexes and the way he swallows slowly, trying to hide his nerves from the rest of us.

“Yes, ma’am,” Wes responds, pulling his hat off completely, setting it on the counter behind him.

“Grace, Wesley. You can call me Grace,” she says, using his formal name, just as she likes to do with me. She holds a hand out to encourage him to sit.

He does, smirking as he looks down at his empty plate.

“Grace is one of my favorite names,” he says through a smile, glancing at me sideways. My heart beats a little stronger for just a breath. With just a subtle look and a few words, he can take me back in time to when we were children.

“Speaking of my name…Joss was about to say grace,” she says, and without warning, my mouth and attitude kicks in, and I breathe out a sigh that makes my father laugh and makes my grandmother twist her mouth with disapproval.

“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat, pursing my lips and gnashing my back teeth together. “I’ve never done it before…is all…”

“I can,” Wes cuts in.

My hero in all ways, I swear.

“Thank you,” Grace says, smiling at him, but letting her mouth fall straight when she moves her gaze to me.

Glancing at me in the seat next to him, Wes gives me a closed-mouth smile and slides his hand toward me along the tabletop, lifting his fingers just enough for me to slide mine under his palm. He does the same to my grandmother then looks across the table to my father, who is just as awkward as I am at this. I wait for Wes’s cue, dropping my chin to my chest but not closing my eyes right away. I can see my dad from my periphery, and I notice he’s doing the same—his open eyes blinking as they stare at the table’s edge.

“Dear Lord, please excuse the poor etiquette I’m about to display. I’ve never really done this…said grace at a dinner table with friends. My family isn’t much for the formalities of religion, but that doesn’t mean that you and I don’t talk. We do. I’ve talked a lot lately about the people I need in my life. I’ve prayed for their safety and health…I’ve prayed for their forgiveness.”

His hand squeezes mine with a gentle force, and I feel the pang of his words in the center of my chest. I squeeze him back.

“You’ve given me more than I deserve, and I thank you for this day…for this evening, here at this table with three other people I know would each give of themselves completely just to make sure the others would have one more dinner like this. We’re grateful for the food and for the shelter, but above all, we’re grateful for the relationships—for the people who make us better, and who lift us at our worst. Thank you…for this life. Sometimes it feels as if it may be more than we can handle…at least it does for me. Doesn’t mean we won’t try, though. I promise I will try.”

At some point during Wes’s words, my eyes fell closed. We all sit silently for a second or two, and eventually Grace leads us by saying, “Amen.” We all repeat her words, and everyone lets go of their grasp on the hand next to them. I let my hand fall below the table to Wes’s knee, and his eyes lock with mine.

“That was lovely, Wes,” Grace says, holding a large plate weighed down with stuffed eggplant. She scoops one onto Wes’s plate, but leans toward him before handing the platter over to me. “I’ve never given thanks before a meal either,” she admits, her eyes sliding to mine briefly, teasing me before moving back to Wes. “I’m pretty sure the last time I heard someone give thanks, in fact, it was you. You were three, and you lived in that house right over there,” she says, turning her head and nodding to the house next door, where Shawn used to live. “Even back then, you were thankful for her. ‘Thank you for Joss,’ you said. The words came out with a lisp, and you followed them up with a cookie. We all thought it was cute, but I had this feeling that you really meant it.”

My boyfriend and my grandmother stare into one another, both holding the heavy plate of food between them, slight smiles drawn from cheek to cheek. I glance to my father, and his brow is heavy, dimpled with the weight of dots he hasn’t quite fully connected.

“I remember you now,” Grace says, finally taking control of the plate and passing it to me. I hold it, but remain focused on the quiet conversation next to me. “And I remember the things you can do.”