I sniffed and felt the corner of my mouth lift in a reluctant smile. “Mrs. Montgomery … are you saying you’re my friend?”
She clicked her tongue and began to push the cart away. “Don’t go making assumptions, Mr. Mason. They’ll only make an ass out of you.”
Howard appeared by my side as she disappeared down the next aisle, and I said, “That old bat just called me her friend.”
“Well, yeah,” he replied as he wiped his hands against his apron, “she speaks very highly of you.”
I guffawed at that. “Get out of here, man. That woman hates me.”
He shook his head. “Actually, she was the one who suggested I make you assistant manager in the first place.”
I stared at the man like he’d sprouted a second head. “No, she didn’t.”
He nodded. “Yep. She knew I needed more help around here, and she mentioned what a trustworthy, hard worker you are.”
“Wow.” I glanced toward the direction the old woman had walked away in. “Who knew?”
I grabbed the broom and resumed my therapeutic sweeping of the floor. Heeding Mrs. Montgomery's warning and forcing my mind to think of anything but my mother. Ray. Noah. Eleven. The upcoming weekend and our plans to buy a TV. Howard lingered, watching the bristles scrape against the bleached wood floorboards with crossed arms and a gentle bob of his head. As if I needed his approval. As if I needed to know if I was doing a good job or not.
Then, he said, “So … listen, Soldier …”
With those words spoken, the broom froze, and my arms stilled. Nobody said those words without dropping a bomb immediately after.
“What's up?” I asked, all of a sudden terrified I might lose my job without any reason to be terrified at all.
“Connie and I were talking the other day. She needs some help with the Fourth of July festival. The ladies who work with her, Christy and Rosie—you've met them, right?”
I nodded. There weren't many people I hadn't met at this point. Especially working in such a central hub like the local grocery store.
“Well, they have most of it covered, but there's some stuff—hanging the banners, stringing some of the lights, things like that—that they need a little more help with, and since you have the height, I thought you might be willing to lend a hand.”
God, this guy needed to work on his conversation starters.
My nerves settled as I nodded. “Yeah, absolutely. You didn't even need to ask, man. You know I'm always down to help.”
“Well, I just didn't know if you had things going on with that girlfriend of yours.”
“It's all good, man. You just let me know whenever you need me, and I’ll be there.”
***
“So, you're not just making friends, but you're also becoming a fixture in town,” Ray said on the way to Harold's, the local department store.
I chuckled from the passenger seat of her old car. “I guess so.”
She reached over and laced her fingers with mine. “I'm glad they're finally seeing what I see,” she replied softly.
“And what exactly is it that you see?” My mouth curled into a teasing smile as I gripped her hand tightly, never ceasing to be amazed at how right it felt in mine.
Her cheeks were florid in the morning sunshine streaming through the open window. “My sweet, gentle giant.” Her voice was quiet against the warm air rushing into the car, but Noah heard her from the backseat, and he groaned in agony.
I bit back laughter as I glanced over my shoulder. “What's up, buddy? You feel okay?”
“No,” he muttered, rolling his eyes to meet mine. “You guys are gonna make me puke.”
“Well, aim it out the window, okay?” Ray replied, grinning into the rearview mirror at her son.
“Nah. I'm gonna aim it at you,” Noah said, jabbing his finger at my shoulder. Laughter heavy in his tone.
“Hey”—I chuckled and shook my head—“I don't handle puke well, man. You throw up on me, and I'm gonna do it, too, and I'll definitely make sure to do it right back at ya.”
Noah groaned with disgust between bursts of giggles. “Mom's car's gonna be so gross.”
“Right? Can you imagine what that's gonna smell like? Jesus … especially in this heat …”
“Okay”—Ray feigned a gag from beside me—“can you guys stop with the puke talk, please?”
Noah let loose a victorious chuckle, like he'd won and gotten the best of his mother.
Ray rolled her eyes toward me, her lips quirked into a smirk, as if to say, What am I going to do about that kid?
There was an adoration in her eyes I never stopped admiring. The love she held for her son, her devotion to him. It amazed and fascinated me … and it made me jealous. Jealous of a kid more than half my age. Because he had been born under one of the worst circumstances imaginable. Some mothers would've hated him, resented him, held their trauma against him … and it would've been understood. Hell, my mother had resented me for less.
But not Ray.
She had this ability—this gift—to separate the child from the circumstances in which she'd had him. She could separate Noah from the bastard who had given him to her. She was the strongest, most beautiful person I'd ever known—inside and out. And while I didn't believe anybody on this planet was perfect … she came really, really close.
“What?” she asked, squinting her eyes at me for a moment before turning them back on the road.
“Huh?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I snorted as I willed my heart to calm down. “Like what?”
“I dunno …” She smirked, her brows pinched with confusion. “You're just looking at me funny.”
Am I?
Forcing a chuckle, I tore my gaze away and shook my head as I busied myself with the radio buttons. But while I searched absentmindedly for a new song to listen to, I wondered how exactly I'd been looking at her. What kind of look was it … apart from funny? And what did it mean? Would I even know?
Most days, it was effortless to go with the natural flow of this relationship. It was easy to navigate. But every now and then, the truth that I didn't know how to be a boyfriend hit me with the force of a thousand bricks, and I wished Grampa were alive so I could get his advice.
Maybe I should call Harry, I thought stupidly as I settled on a station playing an old Seether song.
“They used to be one of my favorite bands,” Ray said, making small talk. Probably intentionally to steer the topic away from funny looks and the question of what they meant.
“Oh, yeah?”
She nodded. “I used to think I was such a badass, listening to them and Breaking Benjamin and …” She tipped her head contemplatively before snapping her fingers and pointing at me. “Oh! You know who I used to love too? Staind. They were amazing.”
“All of them were pretty good,” I agreed.
“What music did you listen to when you were younger?”
I didn't like talking much about when I had been younger, especially with her. But music had the potential to be harmless—unless talking about the memories tied to particular songs. Like Stone Temple Pilots’ “Big Empty.” It would forever take me back to the side of the road, watching as Billy’s body was stuffed into a black bag.