Cross (The Gibson Boys 2.5)

“Yeah. We walked around town, and I talked to Ruby at the library. I can’t believe she’s still alive.”

“Kallie Rae!” She laughs as she follows me to the kitchen. Pictures of me from various ages line the walls of the hallway. “See anyone else?”

“Machlan.”

“How is he?” she presses.

“Good.”

Pulling out a chair, she drops into the seat. “I saw him a few weeks ago at the post office. Good-looking boy.”

“He’s all right,” I say, shaking my head.

“All right? Sometimes I’m not sure you’re my child.” She chuckles. “If I were your age, I’d have snapped up one of those Gibson boys in a heartbeat.”

Turning away, I look out the window over the sink. The small back yard is tidy, her trash and recycling cans in a neat line by the gate. My old brown swing set still sits by the fence in the back, and the picnic table where I had dozens of chats with my friends growing up is in need of a good dose of paint.

All of these things are better topics than dating, or Machlan, or the one I know is coming: Cross.

My mother loved him like he was her son. She made sure he had homemade macaroni and cheese when he was over for dinner and always had his favorite soda in the fridge. When we broke up, she supported me, but I know down deep, she wishes things had worked out.

Maybe I wish that too.

Maybe wishes are pointless.

“We could get some paint tomorrow and redo the picnic table,” I say.

“I wouldn’t be able to move for a week.”

The room gets quiet. The quieter it gets, the louder I hear my heartbeat.

“I’m supposed to go to my women’s club meeting this evening with Dina. Do you want to go?” she asks. “Or did you make plans with Nora?”

Glancing at the clock, I see I have an hour until Cross asked me to meet him. My chest rises and falls, my fingers tapping on the counter.

“Well, you’re invited if you want to come.” She groans, getting out of the chair. “I’m leaving in about an hour. Let me know if you want to join, honey.”

Her steps get softer as she pads down the hallway, and I’m left standing in the kitchen with nothing but a decision to be made.

Slipping on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top after my shower, I make my way into the living room. The hardwood floor creaks as I traverse the room and plop unceremoniously onto the plaid sofa. The remote is on the other side of the room and I don’t have the energy to get it. Besides, the quiet is something I kind of love.

Living in the city made me forget what silence really is. There are no tires squealing or sirens blaring, just an occasional dog barking from the house across the street.

The room is filled with mementos of my life that could only be collected by a mother. A frame hangs to the right with every school picture I ever took. An art piece I created in fifth grade is propped up on a bookshelf, and a trinket we bought on a vacation at Lake Michigan sits next to the television. Each one of those things has a memory of Cross tied to it.

My heart sinks as I squirm on the sofa. There’s a hole in my chest that seems to have reopened since I pulled back into Linton, a big, gaping crevice that I was able to fill well enough in Indiana with work and hobbies and remembering things how I chose to remember them, but now? It’s not that easy.

I had to force myself to get into the bath and shave my legs so I wouldn’t run to the gym to see him on a whim. I washed my hair twice and then used a conditioning mask just to kill time. By the time I got out, I knew he would be gone.

A low rumble from the other side of the wall sounds through the air. Swinging my legs to the floor, I sit up and listen. It trails to the front of the house and stops. There’s a long pause, then a squeak, and then it starts again. Jumping up and heading to the front window, I peer out of the curtains.

My breathing halts, my hands shaking as they hold the lace fabric out of the way.

Cross is dragging my mother’s trash can from the back of the house to the street. He lines it up next to another one and brushes his hands off. Without looking up at me, he disappears into the back yard again.

“What the hell?” I whisper, dropping the curtain.

Finding my sandals, I slip them on and scurry to the kitchen door. When I step into the yard, he’s latching a cable through the handles on the doors of the shed in the back corner.