he’d ever known. And wishing she wouldn’t go.
Wishing she might just sit a little longer. She wouldn’t have to say—or do—anything. Just her presence would have been enough.
He would have enjoyed imagining for a few too-short minutes that they were together and staying that way.
Then again, maybe it was better if she didn’t stay. After all, it was over between them. Long over. Better for him that he didn’t try and pretend he could earn again what he’d thrown away by his brawling and drinking and general bad behavior.
She asked, “So can I trust you now not to run off?”
He nodded. “I’m staying right here. You might never get rid of me.”
“Okay. Now I’m really starting to worry.” She grabbed her jacket, picked up the baby monitor and went to the door, pausing to look back at him with her hand on the knob. Dimples flashed. “You made progress with him tonight. You get that, don’t you?” When he only grunted, she added, “He didn’t even want to come out here and say good-night to you. He did come, though, because I insisted.”
“So maybe you shouldn’t have insisted.”
She gave him a chiding look. “Let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“What I was getting at is, after he cut himself, it was you he wanted to drive him to the clinic.”
“You’re right.” The realization helped. A lot. “I didn’t even think about that.”
“How could you? You were too busy beating yourself up.”
“Yeah, I guess I was—and worrying that if I was the one driving him to see Brett, I might somehow mess that up, too.”
She pulled open the door. “Good night, Bowie.” And then she was gone.
The fire crackled in the stove. The workshop was cozy. Warm.
But still, it felt empty now that Glory had left.
He reminded himself—again—that she was through with him, that what they’d had was long over and done and he needed to remember that. She was only trying to do what was right for Johnny, fighting to make sure her son didn’t get hurt any more than he’d already been. Trying to give him his father so he wouldn’t turn out like Bowie had—lost and angry without a dad’s guiding hand.
He sat in his chair and he waited for a long time, to make sure she’d gone up to bed. Then, taking extra care to be quiet about it, he took the key she’d give him from the hook near the door and left the barn. Outside, the cold winter night seemed dipped in silver. The sky was so clear, thick with stars, and the moon just a tiny sliver hanging near the tops of the pines that covered the mountains. He stood there, midway between the house and the barn, looking up, thinking how beautiful the night was.
Finally, he shook his head and moved on, entering the darkened house on tiptoe. He used the toilet and brushed his teeth.
Back in the workshop, he banked the fire and stretched out on the narrow cot and closed his eyes—and saw Glory’s face.
Not the face she showed him nowadays, but her face the way he remembered it, back in the good times. Soft, with a glow to it, eyes shining, mouth tipped up, waiting for his kiss.
For him, the face he saw alone at night was always Glory’s face. In the years he’d been gone, he’d tried to banish that face from his mind and his memory. And from his heart.
Sometimes, he’d almost succeeded in making himself believe that he was over her.
Almost.
But not quite.
Chapter Seven
T he next evening, Bowie took his mom out to dinner at the Nugget Steak House on Main. He joked with the owner and head waitress, Nadine Stout. And after Nadine brought their steaks and left them alone, he told his mom about the scary incident the night before.
Chastity sighed. “Poor little guy. I hate it when they bleed. But it sounds to me like it all worked out in the end.”
“He wanted me to take him to the clinic so Brett could stitch him up. Me, in particular.”
“That’s good,” said his mom. “Real good.” She talked about her longtime boyfriend, Alyosha
Wishing she might just sit a little longer. She wouldn’t have to say—or do—anything. Just her presence would have been enough.
He would have enjoyed imagining for a few too-short minutes that they were together and staying that way.
Then again, maybe it was better if she didn’t stay. After all, it was over between them. Long over. Better for him that he didn’t try and pretend he could earn again what he’d thrown away by his brawling and drinking and general bad behavior.
She asked, “So can I trust you now not to run off?”
He nodded. “I’m staying right here. You might never get rid of me.”
“Okay. Now I’m really starting to worry.” She grabbed her jacket, picked up the baby monitor and went to the door, pausing to look back at him with her hand on the knob. Dimples flashed. “You made progress with him tonight. You get that, don’t you?” When he only grunted, she added, “He didn’t even want to come out here and say good-night to you. He did come, though, because I insisted.”
“So maybe you shouldn’t have insisted.”
She gave him a chiding look. “Let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“What I was getting at is, after he cut himself, it was you he wanted to drive him to the clinic.”
“You’re right.” The realization helped. A lot. “I didn’t even think about that.”
“How could you? You were too busy beating yourself up.”
“Yeah, I guess I was—and worrying that if I was the one driving him to see Brett, I might somehow mess that up, too.”
She pulled open the door. “Good night, Bowie.” And then she was gone.
The fire crackled in the stove. The workshop was cozy. Warm.
But still, it felt empty now that Glory had left.
He reminded himself—again—that she was through with him, that what they’d had was long over and done and he needed to remember that. She was only trying to do what was right for Johnny, fighting to make sure her son didn’t get hurt any more than he’d already been. Trying to give him his father so he wouldn’t turn out like Bowie had—lost and angry without a dad’s guiding hand.
He sat in his chair and he waited for a long time, to make sure she’d gone up to bed. Then, taking extra care to be quiet about it, he took the key she’d give him from the hook near the door and left the barn. Outside, the cold winter night seemed dipped in silver. The sky was so clear, thick with stars, and the moon just a tiny sliver hanging near the tops of the pines that covered the mountains. He stood there, midway between the house and the barn, looking up, thinking how beautiful the night was.
Finally, he shook his head and moved on, entering the darkened house on tiptoe. He used the toilet and brushed his teeth.
Back in the workshop, he banked the fire and stretched out on the narrow cot and closed his eyes—and saw Glory’s face.
Not the face she showed him nowadays, but her face the way he remembered it, back in the good times. Soft, with a glow to it, eyes shining, mouth tipped up, waiting for his kiss.
For him, the face he saw alone at night was always Glory’s face. In the years he’d been gone, he’d tried to banish that face from his mind and his memory. And from his heart.
Sometimes, he’d almost succeeded in making himself believe that he was over her.
Almost.
But not quite.
Chapter Seven
T he next evening, Bowie took his mom out to dinner at the Nugget Steak House on Main. He joked with the owner and head waitress, Nadine Stout. And after Nadine brought their steaks and left them alone, he told his mom about the scary incident the night before.
Chastity sighed. “Poor little guy. I hate it when they bleed. But it sounds to me like it all worked out in the end.”
“He wanted me to take him to the clinic so Brett could stitch him up. Me, in particular.”
“That’s good,” said his mom. “Real good.” She talked about her longtime boyfriend, Alyosha
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