Chapter Twenty-Three
DAVIS
I waited in the Jeep to drive Brandon to the mural site, my mind sorting through a list of appropriate vocabulary for our impending man-to-man discussion.
Right on time, he barreled out of the house, backpack slung over one shoulder and a piece of half-eaten toast pinched between his lips. His hair could have doubled as a science experiment for static electricity. When he veered toward his bike parked near our rain gutter, I tapped my horn and waved him over.
“I’m taking you, bud,” I called through my open window.
“You are? I’m fine to ride my bike to the bakery.”
“Nah, hop in. We’ll stop by Java Express on our way.” And have a nice little chat while we’re at it.
He shot me a knowing glance. This tried-and-true parenting technique wasn’t a new one.
As if he were boneless, he dropped into the seat, his body slumping in every direction while his feet tucked up under the dash. When had that happened? He clicked his seat belt latch into place, and I reversed down the driveway, making small talk about Kosher’s new rollover trick while mentally rehearsing for a far more pressing conversation.
I pulled into Java Express to buy Callie an iced coffee and Brandon his favorite energy drink, and Darlene Chamberlin slid the window open and took our order, swaying to the country music blaring in the background.
“It’ll be right out,” she assured us with a thumbs-up. If not for the lineup of cars behind us, I would have told her to take her time.
I rapped the steering wheel with my thumbs. “So we should probably talk about what happened at the house yesterday. Between me and Callie.”
Brandon scrubbed a hand down the thigh of his jeans with enough friction to start a campfire. “It’s fine.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.”
“You like her. Obviously.”
“Yes, I do like her. But I’d like to know how you feel about her?”
In his side mirror, he studied the cars lined up behind us. “She’s cool.”
“I guess I figured with as much time as you’ve spent with her, and how well you two seem to get along, that you might offer something a little more profound than she’s cool.” I mimicked his irritatingly dull tone of voice.
The half window to the coffee stand banged open again. “Here you are, Dr. Carter.” I took each drink from Darlene, a girl whose fingernails followed the calendar year, displaying every holiday imaginable. In this case, little American flags, complete with metallic stars and stripes, flashed in the sunlight when I dropped an extra few dollar bills into the plastic tip jar. Her wave of thanks could have blinded an unsuspecting driver.
Brandon twisted to smash his body into the space between the door and seat before popping the tab on his energy drink. “Is she, like, your girlfriend now or something?”
Nothing like ripping the Band-Aid off.
“I’m not sure we’ve labeled it yet, but . . .” Why did this feel reminiscent of the Puberty Talk two summers ago? The steering wheel slipped against my palms. “But I am interested in pursuing a relationship with her. If that’s what she wants.” Out of the corner of my eye, I peered at him. “What do you think about that—about me dating her?”
“It’s fine.” He lifted his shoulder lazily. “Whatever.”
But something about the word choice, about the way he said it, felt more like a conversational cliff-hanger than an ending. But trying to coax Brandon into sharing his feelings on anything was next to impossible.
“Just don’t expect me to get too attached to the idea,” Brandon said. “Especially if you’re not even calling her your girlfriend yet.”
I stopped at the four-way intersection at Baker and Morris. “These things take time, Brandon.”
“You said the same thing about Willa. And look where that ended up.” The briskness of his tone was an indictment.
I forced my heart rate to steady, willed myself not to be defensive.
“Me dating Callie is an entirely different situation than what happened with Willa. She was focused on her daughter’s health and settling back into Lenox and—”
“And then she married somebody else.”
“A decision that was hers to make.”
“Because you let her.”
I gripped the wheel tighter as I yielded to oncoming traffic. “Nobody can force a relationship to work, Brandon. It takes two willing people.”
I’d been so careful to preserve his faultless image of Willa Hart—now Willa McCade—since we’d gone our separate ways. She’d been a trusted family friend who’d known Brandon since kindergarten, and I hadn’t wanted to burden him with my heartache. But the sharp edge in his tone made me wonder if he’d been more hurt by her marriage to Patrick McCade than he’d led me to believe.
“Then how do you know it will be different with Callie?”
“Because . . .” Because nothing about being with Callie felt one-sided. “Because I’m different now.”
He practically snorted.
I made a hard left and pulled into the alley. “Listen, I’m choosing to ask for your input on this—something I don’t have to do, but something I want to do.” I forced the gearshift into park and rotated in my seat. “Because, believe it or not, I actually value what you think.”
He took a long sip from his canned caffeine and then casually threw me a bone. “Well, I already told you, I think she’s cool.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoed, his fingers sliding to the lock button on the door. I expected him to bolt, to mutter something sarcastic under his breath, and then stalk off.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he sat a few seconds longer, staring silently at the brick wall ahead of us.
“Maybe we could look into some hiking trails later,” he said. “Ya know, something to do with your time off.”
My blood pressure slowly decreased back to normal. “I could use a hike.”
“And maybe a trip to Blackrock.”
At the mention of our favorite lake, a place we hadn’t visited together in far too long, I looked at him. “Yes, definitely a trip to Blackrock.”
Without another word, Brandon pried open his door and stepped out. I lifted Callie’s drink from the cup holder and followed him into the narrow alley.
“Morning!” Callie called from the third step of a ladder, a dripping rag in her hand. Brandon stopped near her and bent over a stack of graph paper.
Callie hopped down and practically skipped toward me. “Ooh . . . did you bring me a present?”
I laughed. “I did, although I’m not sure you need it. You don’t seem to be lacking energy this morning.”
She beamed and took the drink from my hand. “I had a lot to look forward to today.”
Amazing how just a few words from her could take the edge off my parenting stress.
She ticked her head to where Brandon stood studying her design. “Looks like he’s made himself at home already.”
Hands on my hips, I released a telling breath. “Yeah.”
“Did, uh, did you talk to him about what happened yesterday at the house?” She shook her head and loosed a giggle. “I honestly didn’t think it was possible to feel like a teenager sneaking around at my age, but . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Corrie talked about it the whole way home. And then happily announced us as a cute couple to my sister.”
“Maybe her cheerleading can rub off on Brandon.”
A question lit her eyes as I touched a stray curl trailing down the nape of her neck. There was always one ringlet that fought against the conformity of her ponytail.
“You sure this arrangement is still okay?” I gestured to Brandon, who was currently sorting through a box of her art supplies, picking them up one by one and examining them.
She tilted her head and gave me that please-tell-me-we’re-not-doing-this-again look. “The two of us will be just fine, Davis. I have an entire week of activities planned for today alone. And later this afternoon, Collin and Corrie will join in on the fun. But first,” she said with a hard pat to my chest, “I was hoping to put your muscles to good use.”
“Were you?”
She waggled her eyebrows and took a sip of her coffee. “Whoa, you weren’t wrong! This stuff tastes magical.”
“Glad you think so. Now, what can I muscle for you?”
“A few plastic totes in the back of my Subaru. Can you bring the blue one out, pretty please? I think it’s on the left behind the paint buckets.”
I headed to her old car, noting the lack of tread on her tires and the rust creeping up from the underbelly. I popped the handle on the hatchback and opened it to reveal a hodgepodge of totes and buckets, each filled with various supplies, rags, and artist paraphernalia. “Out of curiosity, when was the last time you took this in for an oil change, Callie?”
“What?” she called over her shoulder, already engaged in a conversation with Brandon.
“Your car. When was your last tune-up?”
“Uh . . .” She puckered her lips and kicked out her leg, rocking the heel of her sandal distractingly as the airy fabric of her pants shifted on her hips. “Couldn’t tell ya. Chris usually does something to it when I visit, but . . . hmm. I don’t think he got around to it last summer with all his traveling.”
My eyebrows spiked. “Wait—you haven’t had an oil change in two years?” How was that even possible?
“I’m pretty sure yes isn’t the answer you’re looking for, but yes.”
Brandon snickered, and she crossed her eyes, making him bust out a full laugh.
I sighed at her lackadaisical approach to vehicle maintenance and scanned the totes before reaching for the one behind the paint buckets. Hauling it up and out of the hatchback, I balanced it on the bumper before closing the trunk door. “It’s a wonder you haven’t blown this engine up the way you’ve traveled all over the . . .”
But when I turned back to them, she was busy talking with her hands, showing Brandon something I was sure only a fellow creative could envision.
She slashed her finger through the air. “Right about here. That’s what I’m thinking now, anyway.”
“That sounds really cool,” Brandon said. “I like the crown idea.”
“Yeah? Well, good. Your dad liked it, too. We just need to figure out the dimensions and angle of it. The way it needs to tilt on her head has been hanging me up a bit. Which one of these sketches do you like better?”
The two moved to a makeshift table—a two-by-four stretched across a couple upturned five-gallon buckets. Hunched and focused, they studied the graph paper held down by rocks.
I stood there, Callie’s box in my arms, watching the two of them interact as if they’d passed the milestone of new friends long ago and had entered a place of familiarity and comfort—a process I’d come to know as the Callie Effect.
The lack of contention on Brandon’s face as he spoke to her brought a surge of hopefulness through my center. All the masks he wore with me were just that. Masks. The well of his frustration might tunnel deep, but he was still soft underneath. Still pliable. Still the boy I’d raised. Anger hadn’t corrupted his ability to make eye contact or smile. And neither had it stolen his ability to speak with confidence and respect.
I set the tote down and unloaded another burden I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying.
While they chatted about the placement of tables and chairs and towers of pastries, I continued to eavesdrop under the guise of reinforcing a beat-up extension ladder. How did she do all this mural work with only an extension ladder?
“You’ll really let me?” Brandon asked.
“Of course. I have every confidence in you.” Callie squeezed his shoulder.
Brandon swiveled around to me. “Callie said I can fill in some of her outline work.”
I smiled, knowing she’d decided on this days ago. “That’s awesome, bud.”
He turned back to Callie. “Can I take pictures of our progress? I want to send them to my oma.”
I barely managed to hold my face in check at the mention of Vivian. How often was he communicating with her, anyway?
“Of course.” Callie saddled up beside me, looping her arm through mine. “And it will also be fun for your dad to see our progress, too. I might save a couple jobs for him.”
Brandon raised his eyebrows. “A job for my dad? On the mural?”
“Yep.” Her confidence in my nonexistent artistic ability was astounding.
“But he’s—”
“Gonna be awesome,” Callie cut in.
Brandon let his reservations drop. “Whatever you say. So what can I do first?”
“Go ahead and take one of those wet rags from the red bucket and remove any traces of my first chalking.”
I reached for my wallet, removed a few twenties from the billfold, and handed them to Callie. “For lunches.”
Her face contorted. “I don’t need that.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“I can afford to feed us both lunch. Besides, I thought we agreed we’re even now. No debts between us.”
I traced the pretty pout of her mouth with my gaze. “We are even. That has no bearing on you accepting this.”
She contemplated my argument for the better part of a minute before conceding. “Fine. But don’t blame me if I take your son to eat at Sombrero Hat without you. A girl can’t wait on chips and salsa forever, you know.”
I laughed at Callie’s nickname for El Ranchero. “How ’bout I take you this weekend? Saturday?”
“Really?” She quirked a brow. “Are you . . .”
“Asking you out on a date? Yes, it might be shocking to believe, but I have more up my sleeve than kissing you in a pantry.”