“How old are you?”
Maybe it’s lack of sleep but apparently my filters are gone and every random thought gets blurted out loud.
“Thirty-eight. At least for two more months.” Oh. I guess that’s not too bad. I thought maybe early thirties. “You?” he bounces back with a grin. “And don’t tell me it’s rude. You asked first.”
“Older,” I mutter.
“You know I can always ask your sister,” he teases.
“Fine, forty-two.”
He pulls into a strip mall and parks outside a small restaurant that looks to be doing good business. Then he turns in his seat to face me.
“You don’t look it.”
“Oh please. The wrinkles, pasty complexion, and bags under my eyes disagree.”
Reaching out, he cups the bruised side of my face, gently stroking the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone.
“Those aren’t what I notice.”
The air in the truck feels charged. Everything about this man—the way he looks at me, his touch, his words—makes me feel seen in a way I’m not used to. Anyone else and I’d be running for the hills, or at least pulling back from his touch, but for some reason the intensity feels…right, with Bodhi.
Not sure how long we sit there staring at each other but at some point, he picks up my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles before getting out of the truck. I’m too stunned to move before he opens my door and helps me out.
The only booth available is by the kitchen but neither of us care where we sit. We’re left with menus and freshly brewed coffee.
“By the way, your mother is amazing,” I mention when the waitress walks away. “Thank you for calling her the other night. Vic says she offered to help out with Pops when she has a shift, but I don’t know if we can accept that.”
“You’d be doing her a favor. My dad is recently retired and driving Mom up the wall. She’s happy to get out of the house,” he assures me, but I still have my reservations.
“It’s very kind and I know she has experience, but my father is difficult. A bit unpredictable.”
And possibly violent. Although I don’t say that out loud. The thought of Pops hurting Bodhi’s mother—a tiny woman—makes me sick to my stomach.
“Have you talked to your sister about that?”
He lightly touches the bruise on my face before covering my hand on the table, giving it an encouraging squeeze. I know he’s guessed what happened and despite my first instinct to deny or repeat my excuses, I shake my head instead.
“It happened Friday morning and things have gone a bit crazy since then. I haven’t really had a chance. It’s why I don’t feel comfortable accepting your mother’s help. I’d never forgive myself if he hurt her.”
“Trust me, she’s well aware of the risk,” he insists. “She’s been down that road before and could be a good resource for you as well.”
It would be nice to talk to someone about my worries and fears without it becoming about pointing fingers. If I’m honest, that’s what has been holding me back from telling my sister. Granted, she’s looked after him longer than I have, but since coming home I’ve seen a clear deterioration in his condition. Vic might make this latest escalation into another fail on my part, which would detract from the real issue: continuing to care for Pops at home may not be feasible.
“Let me think about it.”
Bodhi
At least she’s eating.
The bruise stood out in stark contrast to her pale and drawn face, but I’m glad to see some pink returning as she finishes her bacon and eggs. At least she didn’t try to deny how she got it this time. I’ll need to resist the urge to talk to Vic myself. I have a feeling that won’t go over too well with Trin.
I’m eager to learn more about her, but I get a strong sense she’s not accustomed to sharing. Still, I’m unable to hold back my curiosity when she talks about the brief police visit with her son yesterday.
“Where’s Tucker’s father in all this?”
Despite never actually saying as much, I assumed she was divorced. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring, the boy carries her last name, and neither she nor her sister ever mentioned his father.
Her pretty eyes glance up at me from behind the pale fringe of her lashes. She appears to consider her answer before speaking.
“He died before Tuck was born.” She carefully folds her paper napkin until nothing but a small square is left. “Tyler was a foreign correspondent in Kenya during the aftermath of the presidential elections, when I was there doing a story on the illegal ivory trade. The poaching of elephants,” she clarifies.
“You’re a journalist,” I conclude.
“Freelance now, but yeah. Anyway, we enjoyed each other’s company for a brief time before I moved on to Tanzania. I found out through a mutual friend he got caught up in violence between rival tribes a few weeks later and was killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
She throws me a little smile.
“That was a long time ago. January of 2006. I didn’t find out I was pregnant with Tuck until I got back stateside in early March. Tuck was born in October.”
“He has a birthday coming up.”
“Fifteen in three weeks.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” She shakes her head. “He used to be such an easy kid. A little charmer, always smiling, but that happy-go-lucky boy seems to be gone. He barely even talks to me.”
Tucker is half-black, and being bi-racial myself, I remember being maybe ten or eleven and suddenly being made aware I was different. Or at least looked different. My mom is Indian, my dad Caucasian, but I have my mother’s coloring.
I imagine Trin’s son is suddenly getting comments, jabs, and taunts from other kids, just like I remember being subjected to. It was tough to deal with at the time, but at least I had both parents to balance me. Other than his unexpected blue eyes, Tucker looks like a black kid, except that part of him is not represented in his family.
“It can be tough growing up a bi-racial kid,” I offer carefully. This can be a sensitive subject and the last thing I want to do is offend her. “I was one myself and struggled, you can ask my parents. Teenage years tend to be an identity struggle anyway, but for someone from two different ethnicities, that becomes more of a challenge.”
She contemplates my words and I give her time to process.
“He’s always been able to talk to me. About anything.”
I shove my empty plate out of the way and grab her hand across the table.
“I have no doubt, but he may be hesitant to talk to you about this because he thinks you won’t understand.”
She instantly pulls her hand back and drops it in her lap. I can see I upset her.
“Of course I would understand,” she sputters.
The momma bear comes out and I try not to smile.
“How could you, though?” I question her cautiously. “I’m not saying you can’t empathize with what he’s feeling, but you’re a white woman with a different frame of reference. How are you supposed to understand the experience of a person of color?”
The waitress shows up with the bill and I quickly take care of it.