The Reasons to Stay

“Not me. Kids are like puppies—adorable, but also unsafe, uncontrollable and messy. When I have the urge, I’ll just come borrow yours. I’ll get my cute fix, and a solid reminder of why I’m never having any.” He leaned over and bumped her shoulder.

He and his best friend Daryl had double-dated back in high school. Adam brought whoever, but the other half had always been Daryl and Carley. Still was.

Her brown eyes held concern, and a few milligrams of pity. “You are a sad case, Preston.”

“What are you talking about? Life is good.”

“Oh, please. I’ve known you since second grade so I feel obligated to point out a few things.” She lifted her hand, and started ticking points on her fingers. “You live in your mother’s house, alone. You dispense corn plasters and Viagra to the over-sixty set during the day, then fill your off-hours running a softball league for potbellied wannabes.” She took a breath.

God, he hated when she counted on her fingers. She had so many.

“Your last girlfriend just came out of the closet, and you’re down to DatesRUs.com, or recommendations from Jesse, at the Café.”

He winced as the darts hit home. They were small but Carley always had dead aim. “Why don’t you just fillet me, and have it over with?”

Her fingers encircled his biceps. “Roger’s gone, Adam. But you’re still here.” He’d seen eyes like that behind chain-link fences at the pound. His jaw locked. “We are not discussing that.”

“Okay, okay.” Her fingers slid off his arm. “Only because I’m such a good friend, I’m here to save you from a long, lonely future.”

“Why am I afraid?”

“A big, strong guy like you, afraid of a date?”

“What date?”

“Well, working in the office at the school does have its advantages. The replacement for your—um—the teacher who left—”

“No.” The chain-link twists dug in his forearms when he pushed off and straightened.

“Adam, just listen. Her name is June Sellers, and she’s just your type.”

“And what, exactly, is my type?”

She rolled her eyes and unholstered those fingers. “Blonde and classy, quiet and ladylike. The type a guy could take home to his mother. You know, a good girl.”

The air quotes stung. “Why do you say that like it’s bad?”

“It’s not. If that’s what makes you happy.” She dug through her purse a moment and came up with a crumpled Post-it note in hot pink. “I told her about you and she gave me her phone number.” She handed it over. “She’s expecting your call.”

He avoided what looked like peanut butter on the edge and squinted at the smeared writing.

“I just think you deserve more than what you want.” She held up a hand to ward off his protest. “I’m only trying to wake your ass up. Life isn’t safe, or neat and tidy. I’d think you’d have figured that out after what you lived through.” The pity was back in her stare. “When are you going to take off the gloves and live life out loud, Preston?”

“I’m happy as is, thanks, Carley.”

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, Adam unlocked the glass front door of Hollister Drugs, stepped in, locking it behind him. He followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee to the soda fountain, where Sin stood in her uniform, reading the Widow’s Grove Telegraph, and sipping coffee from a mug that suggested doing something to oneself that was physically impossible.

With effort, he pulled his eyes from the multi-colored tattoos that twined, full-sleeve, down both her slim arms. “You need to cover those tattoos, and I asked you to take that mug home.”

“Well, Happy Monday, Sin.” She put down the paper. “We’re not open yet. I’ll put on the arm warmers when we are, and I don’t drink coffee in front of customers, you know that.” She set a clean stoneware mug on the counter and poured him a cup. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine this morning?”

“Good morning, Sin.” He reached for the coffee, noticing again how badly her hot pink hair clashed with the uniform. “You sure I can’t talk you into a different hair color? Blue? A nice lavender?”

When she smiled, the crystal set in her tooth flashed. “Nah, but thanks, boss.”

He saluted her with his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.” He noticed his new tenant sat at one of the tables, reading the Widow’s Grove Telegraph. The paper rustled when she turned a page. He raised an eyebrow at Sin.

She shrugged. “If you trust her enough to live across the hall from your mother, I thought it was safe to invite her in for a cup of coffee before we opened.”

He nodded. I should have thought to do that myself.

Priss wore a closely fitted pink button-down shirt and dress pants. Her short dark hair had that just-fell-out-of-bed look that had him imagining things he shouldn’t.

Her too-big green eyes held a warning that he’d been staring.

He slapped on his “trusted pharmacist” smile to cover his gaffe and carried his coffee to her table. “Morning. Mind if I join you?”

She put down the paper, pulled a phone from her large tapestry purse on the floor and checked the time. “Okay, but I only have a few minutes.”

He slid into the fancy wrought-iron chair. “I just wanted to officially welcome you to Widow’s Grove. I realized I hadn’t done that yet. Are you finding your way around?”

“So far, so good. I’m enjoying the apartment, but I wondered what passes for fun around here.”

“Well, the tourists go on wine tours, and there’s shopping—”

She waved a hand. “I mean the locals. What do you do for fun?”

“Baseball.”

A spark of interest flared in her eyes. “Tell me about that.”

“We have little league for the kids and a senior league for adults.”

“Women allowed on the teams?”

“They’re not banned. But only one team has a woman. It’s pretty competitive.” He leaned his elbows on the edge of the table. “Do you play?”

She nodded. “High school. And I played first base in a summer league in Boulder.”

Enchanting and she played baseball? Too good to be true. “Slow-pitch?”

She made a pfft sound of dismissal. “I said I played.” She leaned an arm over the back of her chair and flashed him a card shark’s smile. “Hard ball, baby.”

He could talk smack. He just never had, with a woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You any good?”

She held her hand up and blew on her nails. “Point nine two fielding percentage, no errors.”

“How many games?”

“Fifteen.”

“Nice.” A woman on the Winos? Why not? Pete Gilmour sucked at first base. Plus it would give Adam the opportunity to get to know Priss better.

On the other hand... He studied her stand-up hair and the stubborn line of her chin. She was hardly his type. And about as far from safe as it was possible to be.

Still, he’d sure love to see this little dynamo run bases. “You interested in playing?”

“Maybe. Who would I talk to if I was?”

“I run the league, and pitch on one of the teams. I might have a slot. If you can hit.”

“Two seven five average.”

“Not bad for a girl.” He didn’t let his lips quirk. But he wanted to. She stuck out her chin. “Pretty good for an infielder. Even a guy.”

Cute, competitive, and the stats to back it up. This could be love.

She folded the paper and slipped it in her purse. “Well, thanks for the tips, and the conversation.”

He wanted to keep her here, talking. This lady tugged at his attention and he wanted to understand why. “You never said what brought you to Widow’s Grove.”

He couldn’t say exactly what changed. She didn’t move, but she changed, lightning-fast, from a pretty, young woman to a jungle cat—motionless, crouched, wary.

Her fingers tightened on her cup. “Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” He took a slow sip of coffee. “I would guess you’re not from a small town.”

“Nooo.” She said the word as if he’d pulled it from her. When she shrugged, her shoulders lost their firing-squad tension. “I got tired of the big city and decided to slow down for a while.”

“Well, you’ll find people here friendly. They’ll want to get to know you.” He raised a hand in a universal gesture of peace. “In a good way. We watch out for our own.”

“I’ve been watching out for myself for years.” She stared into her mug long enough to divine the future in the dregs. “I’m from Vegas, originally.”

“Not much small town there.”

“You’d be surprised. Off the strip, it’s a lot like a small town.” Her pert nose wrinkled. “People get way up in each other’s business. It’s part of why I got out of there as soon as I could.”

He wanted to keep her talking. “Um, before you go, could give me some advice? You know, as a woman?” He leaned in to whisper.

She backed up.

“What color uniform should I order for Sin?”

Her face went blank a microsecond, then she laughed. It wasn’t the delighted tinkle he’d expected from a tiny thing like her. It was an all-in belly laugh, and he glimpsed for the first time, what she’d look like unguarded. Her smile outshone the sun pouring in the window. But what hit harder was her...he fumbled for a word to describe it.

Life force.

A vibrant woman lived inside that wary jungle cat. Her laughter echoed in his bones, making him want to reach out and catch her hand where it lay on the table. He stopped himself in time. What kind of background made a woman that young so wary?

She leaned in, her lips quirking. “A different color is not going to fix that problem.”

“I was afraid you would say that.”

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I like her just the way she is and I’ll bet your customers would say the same.”

He broke eye contact before it could become another stare. “Yes, but she’s just so...out there.”

The twinkle in her eye winked out. The jungle cat was back. “Oh, and conformity tops honesty, efficiency and competence in your book?”

“No. But I can dream, can’t I?”

A shade of a smile crossed her lips. “Dream on, dude.” She lifted her phone, and snapped to attention. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where you off to?”

“I’ve got to go...to work.” She slipped her phone in her purse.

“Great, you found a job. Doing what?”

“Um. Customer service.” In one fluid movement, she was on her feet. “Nice talking to you.”

He stood. “You have a good day.”

She turned and waved to Sin, who came from behind the counter with the keys in her hand. Though he couldn’t hear their words, they talked all the way to the door. Sin unlocked it, let out Priss and let in Susie, his checkout girl.

He grabbed his cup to leave but his gaze followed Priss until she passed the edge of the window.

* * *

“IGNACIO HART. Report to the office.”

The voice on the dorm loudspeaker was soft but Nacho still jumped. He shot a look around to be sure no one saw. Nope. The prisoners were all at breakfast.

They’d told him his half sister would be here to take him today. He’d been shocked, since it was pretty clear that day at the apartment that she didn’t give a shit. Besides, she sure didn’t look like the motherly type. That was okay by him. He’d already had a mother—didn’t need another.

He crammed the last of his T-shirts into his backpack and looked around. The sun hit the floor, crosshatched by the wire in the glass. They said it was there to keep the kids safe.

Yeah, tell me another bedtime story.

Neatly made cots stretched the length of the high-ceilinged room. His was the only rumpled one. Screw ’em. He was so out of here.

He tossed the backpack over his shoulder, his hands fisted so they wouldn’t shake. He couldn’t wait to escape this kid warehouse, with their rules, bad food and the wimps sniffling after lights out. The only good thing about this place was that a bus picked him up so he could keep going to the same school. Not that he cared about learning, but all his homies were there.

He walked to the door, wondering if he was heading from a pile of dog crap into an over-his-head shit pile. His mom was dead, his dad was in prison. They were handing him off to a chick he didn’t even know, just because half her blood was his mom’s. What did that have to do with him?

But the county didn’t care. They were happy to have one less body in the warehouse. No one bothered asking the only guy who might care—and he hated that.

He used to feel empty inside when his mom went to work at night. Now he felt empty all the time. He wished he had a big family, like his friend Joe. They were loud and yelled a lot but you had to care if you yelled, right?

He took a last quick glance around to be sure he hadn’t left anything. The extra weight of the iron cross felt just right in the bottom of the backpack. His teacher talked about how knights in old days had a family coat of arms on their shields when they went into battle. The cross was his. Maybe his mom was full of shit. Maybe all those dead guys back in Spain weren’t royalty. But the weight felt right, just the same.

His stomach rumbled, empty, but full of ice. He practiced a badass superhero scowl.

His shoelaces slapped the floor, but he imagined a pair of Avenger’s boots, thumping down the stairs. He was tough. His skin was leather. Ice was in his veins, not in his stomach. He was—

His sister stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She was little for a grown-up—only a couple inches taller than him. Trying to look cool with her spiked hair and hipster pants, but she was scared. He knew scared when he saw it.

Cool—that made them equal.

He slouched down the last couple of stairs.

“Hi, Nacho. I signed you out of here for good. Have you got all your stuff?”

He glared hard and walked past her. No reason to make it easy.

“Hey, wait.” She trotted to catch up, and pushed the door open for him. “It’s not really warm enough yet, but I thought you’d like to ride with the top down.” She waved her arm at a huge beater Caddy parked at the curb. The paint was sunburnt and it looked like the white leather interior was split in places, but his stomach took a happy dive anyway. He’d look cool pulling up to school in a drop-top.

He followed her, scuffing his feet to act like he didn’t want to. The tall brick building loomed at his back, watching to see if he’d get in the car. Whether or not this worked out, there was no way he was going back to that place. He’d run away first.

She patted the door, then swooshed it open like it was a limo. “This is Mona. Mona, this is Nacho.”

He snorted and got in. Crazy ran in his family.

She walked to the driver’s side and got in but she didn’t crank the engine; she just looked at him.

“What?”

“I got us an apartment—a nice one, over Hollister Drugs. You know where that is?”

What, did she think he was an idiot? He nodded.

“I already talked to your school. I’ve got to work so the bus will drop you off about two blocks from the drugstore. I should be home about the time you get there, but if I’m not...”

When she didn’t say more, he had to look at her.

“You’re to wait for me outside, on the sidewalk. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to take you in and introduce you to the landlord and his mother when I get home from work today. They don’t exactly know about you yet, so...” She chewed her lip. “Just wait for me when you get home from school, okay?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not retarded.”

When she smiled she looked a little like his mom and a little like one of those elf queens in the Lord of the Rings. “Noted. Buckle your seat belt.” After he did, she handed him a bag from the floorboard then cranked the engine. “I figured you didn’t get breakfast.”

He opened it. A McMuffin. Sweet. “Thanks.” He ignored the foil-covered cup of orange juice and dug in.

“What do you think of this town?” She talked loud, over the wind.

“It blows.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Then don’t ask me a question after I take a bite.”

She looked over at him. “So you’re not tied to this place?”

He snorted. “I want to go to a city. Like a real city—like L.A. or something.” They had real gangs there. He could take his pick.

She smiled. “Then you’re going to like living with me. I move around.”

It might be cool, getting to see places. “I can hang with that.”

“Great. Then when you get out of school in June, we’ll hit the road, okay?”

“Cool.” Actually, it was cold but he didn’t care. The wind whipped by, making it feel like they were going a hundred instead of thirty-five. People in other cars stared. He rested his arm on the door and squinted at them. This part might not be too bad.

Ten minutes later, Priss pulled into the circle in front of his school. Cars ahead and behind them dropped off kids. More kids hopped off the buses parked at the curb. Others milled on the sidewalk, yelling, running. A typical day.

He spotted Diego and almost waved like a butt-wipe second grader. He stopped himself in time. But Diego saw him, and elbowed Joe. Nacho took his time gathering his backpack so they could get a good look at his wheels. It was a beater, but it was a drop-top. With raised shocks and some painted flames—

“We’re clear, right, Nacho? You’re going to wait for me in front of the store after school?” She looked worried.

“I got it.” He hopped out and slammed the door, hard, to show her what he thought of her rules.

“Okay, you have a good day, Nacho. See you this afternoon.”

He crossed the sidewalk to his real family. The one he got to choose.

CHAPTER FOUR

PRISS WATCHED NACHO stride to the sidewalk and slap hands with two Hispanic boys. Well, that went about as well as I could expect.

When a horn bleated behind her, she moved up ten inches.

A tingle of consequence shivered down her spine and she shifted on the seat. She felt as if today she’d stepped through a door, a demarcation that would separate her life into before and after. She shook it off. Widow’s Grove was a way station, a branch to rest on before she flew off to the next adventure.

She wondered how she’d look back on this time. What kind of mother—no, guardian—would she be? She inched Mona forward a few feet. Well, she’d be a better one than her mother, that was for sure. Nacho would never have to lie awake, afraid in the dark. She would be what she’d wished her mother had been: attentive, understanding and present. She’d also make sure that Nacho felt comfortable talking to her about anything.

In fact, because she wasn’t his mother, maybe they could just be friends. Sure, she’d be the one setting down the rules, but somebody had to. He’d understand that.

Good friends. Yeah, that’s what I want.

They could take day trips on the weekends, exploring the area. Maybe they’d learn to parasail—or even surf! With happy thoughts she inched her way to the exit, hung a right and headed back to town.

Her shift at the bar didn’t start for an hour and a half, and she had one more chore to complete. Ms. Barnes had turned over the papers for Nacho, along with the key to her mother’s apartment. Apparently the state had decided Cora Hart’s belongings wouldn’t help them out of their fiscal crisis. Now Priss had to clear out the rest of the stuff, or pay rent for another week. As much as she was dreading going back there, she didn’t have a choice.

And that made her feel trapped. Again.

She rested her arm on Mona’s door. The sun winked through the morning cloud cover, then disappeared.

A scene flashed in her mind. One of the last scenes of a long and depressing movie.

Her mom stood at the stove smoking a cigarette, stirring potatoes frying in a cast-iron skillet. “You’re going to like him, Priss. He’s sweet, employed, and—”

“He’s married, Ma.”

“Well, he’s had a tough go of it. The marriage is not good. He’s going to file for a divorce. Soon.”

“So, in the meantime, he’s going to move in here? Do you realize I go to school with his kids, Ma?”

It was hopeless. All a guy had to do was ask and if Cora Hart wasn’t involved with someone else, she was his. She’d done stupid stuff before, like when she hooked up with that sleaze who had cleaned them out two years earlier. But this was a new low. She’d never messed with a married man before. “Do you know what’s going to happen when this gets around school?”

Her mother tapped the cigarette on the ashtray, put it back in her mouth and turned the greasy potatoes with the spatula. “You’ll like him. We’ll make a great family. You’ll see.”

Priss pulled Mona to the cracked curb in front of the so-called apartments. The tired paint and robust weeds didn’t look any better today. She sat a moment, staring at her memory that had slipped into the present. Something inside her firmed, like clay hardening in the sun.

It’s not going to be like that for Nacho. I’m going to listen to him. He’s going to know he has a say in what happens. It’s going to be him and me first, then everything and everyone else second.

At least for as long as she was here.

She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, checked the side mirror for traffic, then stepped out of her car. She strode to the back alley where she’d spied Dumpsters on the way by. Luckily one was empty. She muscled it across the alley and pushed it under the back window of her mother’s apartment.

Piece of cake. You can do this.

Today she didn’t need the scent of underprivileged that enveloped her when she walked in the door to take her back to those dark days. The ghost of her mother stood in the kitchen, stirring potatoes.

She ignored the vision and stepped into the tiny bedroom where Nacho had slept. Might as well start there. She opened the window, stripped the bed, and tossed the sheets out. She opened a plastic bin that had held his clothes, and filled it with anything that looked personal. There wasn’t much: a few Lego pieces, a G.I. Joe figure he’d probably outgrown and a couple of dime-store jigsaw puzzles.

Next, the closet. Her mother’s few clothes hung from hangers in limp accusation. She didn’t even examine them—straight out the window.

Keeping her head down to avoid ghosts, Priss dragged the trash can from the kitchen into the living room. Everything not belonging to the landlords got dumped in, including ashtrays and the rumpled threadbare sheets on the couch—her mother’s last bed. She pulled off the sheets and rolled them into a ball. But before she let them go, she lowered her nose and took a deep lungful of the desperation, hope and sadness that had been her mother.

A barnacled shell, buried so deep in the silt of her psyche that she’d forgotten it, suddenly burst open, spitting out a misshapen pitted, black pearl of guilt.

A strangled sob slipped out before her throat closed.

I should have at least stayed in touch. The pain of learning about her mother’s death from a stranger rose in her, fetid and slimy. Had her mother lain in a county hospital bed, breathing like a landed fish, wishing she could see her daughter one last time?

It isn’t the child’s job to rescue an adult. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

Shaking her head at her sentimental foolishness, Priss dropped the sheets in the trash, then walked to the kitchen. The sooner she got out of these backwaters, the better.

A half hour later, the apartment was empty. She took one last quick tour to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. She glanced in the bathroom and pulled the door to close it when something brushed her hand. Hanging from a hook on the back of the door was an apron. She remembered it. Her mother’s barmaid apron.

The pocket gapped. Priss reached in and pulled out a roll of money, held together with a rubber band. No evening’s tips, these—twenties and tens, more than an inch thick. When she slid the band off and unfurled the bills, a piece of paper fell out. She unfolded it to find a list of states, with a line through Nevada, Florida, Michigan and Ohio. What, was she trying for a man in every state? Priss flipped through the bills, counting, stunned by the tally. What had she been saving for? Bail money for Nacho’s father before the trial? A deposit on a decent place to live in? Nah. Cora Hart had lived in places like this her entire life, and she’d been way too old a leopard to change her spots.