Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri

I jerk back. Technically, he hasn’t hit me. But it feels like he has.

“Okay, those kids are my responsibility,” I say, pointing toward the door. Then I point at him. “And I’m not having this discussion with you.”

Then I leave before he can let me in on any more of his interesting theories about how I’m overparenting.

Speaking of which, I must be doing something right because A’s waiting exactly where I told him when I come outside. At least one guy in my life is easy to figure out.

“Where is she?” I demand, slamming the door of the back house behind me.

A stares at the ground and mumbles, so I can barely hear him when he answers, “I think maybe it’s August the Fifth.”

“August Brandt?” I repeat, not sure I’m hearing right.

From what E’s told me, he’s an asshole who everybody at the school worships because, “he’s really good at a game rich White people stole from First Americans.” She hates that he gets away with whatever he wants. His family pretty much owns our town and that means no one, not even teachers, dare to cross him.

For those reasons alone, I’m finding it hard to believe E would sneak out to meet up with August Brandt. Also, he’s definitely not E’s type. According to town gossip, August doesn’t do girlfriends, only hookups. And E demands complete and utter infatuation from the boys she steals away from other girls.

So there’s no way she’d sneak out to be with him. Is there?

Chapter Eighteen

Apparently there is. One car ride and a few minutes of pounding on the front door of Guadalajara’s only manor house later, a Black lady in a housekeeper uniform opens the door.

“Where’s Richie Rich’s room?”

“Who are you again?” the housekeeper asks.

Whatever.

“E!” I yell, charging up the grand staircase. “Where the hell are you?”

“E! E!”

Some might question my tactics, but I soon reaffirm something I learned early during my time in the Emergency Department. Crazy Black lady yelling at the top of her lungs gets the job done 100% of the time.

E appears on the landing in an inside out shift dress a few moments later, looking shame-faced. A tall and rangy sandy-haired boy emerges from the room right behind her. He only has on a pair of boxer briefs. August Brandt.

He looks exactly as E described. Smug from the top of his tousled chestnut brown locks to the bottom of his bare feet.

Which is why it’s such a surprise when he says, “Look, ma’am, this is all my fault. I convinced her to come over here—”

I stop him right there. “Not interested in talking to you about this. At all. You’ve already made me compromise myself and your staff member. So let’s end this unnecessary contact now.”

I jerk my head toward the front door, which the housekeeper is still standing at. “C’mon, E.”

E immediately follows me towards the stairs. Like she’s running away from a fire.

However, August Brandt does too.

To my surprise, he doesn’t just let me take E home. This bold boy has the nerve to follow us down the stairs, talking about how he meant no disrespect. And that if I’d allow, he’d like to have us over to dinner. Introduce himself properly.

I glance over at E. This is not how she described him. And he must not understand that E doesn’t operate that way.

She’s like I used to be. Catch and release. In fact, this is the closest I’ve ever come to formally meeting any of her acquisitions. And I doubt she was looking for anything more than a quick fling when she decided to violate the state’s stay-at-home order.

But I notice how she keeps on looking back at him as we go.

That’s new, I think, even as I answer August, “We won’t be back.”

It’s a long, awkward drive home.

“You’re grounded,” I inform her as soon as we walk in the door.

E just nods. Then goes to her room and returns with her phone which she hands to me without even having to be asked for it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice little more than a whisper. “I...I shouldn’t have done that.”

And that takes the self-righteous wind right out of my sails. “E, is everything okay?” I find myself asking. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I scrunch my brow. Not liking that I can’t read her right now. “E…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” This time she screams the words at the top of her lungs. Before turning and rushing up the stairs.

I let out a sigh and debate following her. But she doesn’t have access to phones or TV. Eventually, she’ll get bored and come downstairs I decide.

Then I look from the stairs to the door at the back of the kitchen.

I can see the back house through its window pane. And for a moment, something tugs at me. Urging me to go over there.