Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

Abigail pretends to reach up and adjust her shoulder strap. “They can be a little confining, but we make do.” She says it like she’s imparting a secret.

“When Grandma goes running, she has to wear one or her boobies flop all over the place.”

My mother lets out a snort and says, “That’s enough talk about bras and flopping boobies.”

I bark out a laugh before I can reconsider it.

“Well, that’s what you said,” Mitchell answers, looking like he’s confused.

She gives him a scolding look, one that would have had been a warning back in my day. “Some things are private,” she says as she glares at him.

“I kind of like this conversation,” I say. I lean back and cross my arms, lifting my feet to rest them on a nearby chair. I settle in for the shit-show that could potentially erupt. “What else does Grandma do that she doesn’t want you to talk about?”

He laughs and looks at my mother, who warns him with her eyes that this is not an appropriate conversation. “Nothing,” he mutters. He grabs his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Is he okay?” I ask immediately.

“He’s fine. His running off at the mouth is making him feel bad.” She’s still glaring at him, but now she’s doing it playfully.

“So, Dad, this is where you live?” He looks around the campsite with an appraising eye, nodding as he takes in the little stove, the fishing rod that’s standing next to the tree, and my tent.

I gesture to the campsite. “This is where I live. For now,” I rush to clarify. I don’t want him to go out and tell people I live in a tent. “I’m working on moving into one of the cabins. Soon. I plan to do it soon.”

“Why do you live in a tent?” he asks.

“I like to be outside,” I admit. I don’t want to give him more information than that. I don’t want to tell him what I told Katie earlier, that I don’t want to feel like I’ve been locked up again. That I don’t want to be tied to a place that’s not mine.

“Can I come and stay with you?” He looks from me to my mother and back.

She gestures to me like she’s helpless. “This one is on you, son,” she says, as she waves her hand in the air.

“Maybe,” I tell him.

“When?”

“When what?”

“When can I come and stay with you?” His feet start to swing again.

I look at my mother for help, but she gives me nothing. “Umm…” I scratch my head.

“What about this weekend?” he asks. “After you come to my game, I could come home with you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You are coming to my game, aren’t you?”

“Well, I hadn’t decided yet.”

He looks at my mother. “You said he was coming.”

She gives me a stern glance. “Oh, he’ll be there. If not, I’m going to ground him.”

Mitchell rolls his eyes. “He’s too big to ground.” He leans toward me. “She grounds me if I forget to unload the dishwasher. She’s mean sometimes.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is firm,” I correct, but I’m struggling not to laugh out loud all the while.

“No,” he replies. “She’s mean when she’s mad. She walks around talking to herself and talking about what I did or didn’t do that made her mad.”

My mom had always done that. She would let me get into trouble, and then she would walk around and have a discussion with herself about why I would do something so stupid. It meant she was really mad.

“I think that’s how she works it all out in her head.”