“I’m really happy to finally meet you.” Tank’s smile grows.
Finally? I glance at Pat, who is rubbing the back of his neck and scuffing his cowboy boot in the dirt. What did he say about me? And when?
“I’m Lindy. And this is Jo. My niece.”
Tank strides over to Jo and crouches down the same way Pat did. He holds out his big hand and Jo’s tiny one disappears in it. She grins, clearly loving all this adult attention. I’m trying my very hardest not to love it too.
This is how it would be, a little voice whispers in my head. This is how it could be.
I slam a mental door on that idea and attach a large padlock to it, tossing the key down a mineshaft. Those kinds of thoughts have no business in my mind.
“Is that your car?” Jo asks, pointing up the drive. “Looks like you got stuck.”
Tank stands and glowers at Pat, but I can see the teasing in his expression. “Yes, that’s my car. Someone was driving a little bit too fast and didn’t see the pothole. I think we might have broken an axle.”
My stomach sinks when I realize it’s Tank’s car, not Pat’s. I don’t recognize the make or model, which assures me it’s expensive. I didn’t feel so bad thinking it was Pat, because he deserves to break his fancy car in a pothole for showing up here unannounced. But if it’s his dad’s …
“I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush. “The driveway is a mess if you don’t know where the potholes are. Can I—should I—”
I’m not sure what to offer, considering I can’t afford to do anything at all. Not to fix the driveway or his car, not to get a tow truck. Sweat prickles along my hairline.
Tank holds up a hand, smiling gently. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got AAA, and a tow truck is on the way. It’s fine. My son will be covering the damages. Right, Patty?”
Jo laughs. “Your name is Patty?”
Pat grimaces. “My name is Patrick. Most people call me Pat.”
“But you can call him Patty,” I tell Jo. “He really likes that nickname.”
“He loves that nickname, right, Patty?” Tank throws an arm around Pat, then winks at me. I love him for it.
When Pat doesn’t answer right away, Tank squeezes him. It’s comical how Pat—not a small man by any means—is dwarfed by his father. The obvious closeness between the two men makes me ache. My father was never in my life, not even my earliest memories. Even after he died, I never missed him, specifically, but I long for this. My breath hitches, and I clear my throat to dislodge the sticky emotion there.
You have family, I remind myself. You have Jo. Mari and Val. Winnie and her brother, Chevy. Big Mo. And so many other people in this town who have given you support these past five years.
And yet, the display I see in front of me, as Pat playfully shoves Tank, whose booming laugh makes even my grinchy heart smile—this, I don’t have.
“Can we get you something to drink?” Jo asks, so easily offering the hospitality I should have thought of. “We have water, sweet tea, and those fizzy flavored waters.” She wrinkles her nose at that one, making Pat chuckle.
“I think we’d do just fine with water,” Tank says. “And then, how would you like to show me around? I thought I saw a barn.”
“I’ll show you the barn. Two waters, coming right up!” Jo bounds up the steps, making sure to hop over the one with the gaping hole in the center.
The door slams behind her, screen flapping from where Beast ran through it months ago to chase a squirrel. I’m suddenly and intensely embarrassed, remembering what terrible shape my house is in and how it must look to them.