Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(46)

“You don’t worry about me. I’d rather see you happy.”

“I am happy.”

“With a wife,” she clarifies sternly.

“Well, I can guarantee Reese isn’t looking to become a wife again anytime soon.”

“Again?” Mama repeats, her brow arched.

“Yeah.” I give her a knowing look as I add, “Until her husband cheated on her.”

Mama makes a tsking sound. A pause, and then she murmurs wryly, “You didn’t seem too worried about losing your job out in the grove earlier today.”

I open my mouth but she hushes me with, “Oh, Benjamin. I’ve watched you chasing girls since you were six years old, so don’t pretend otherwise. I can only imagine what you’ve been up to all these years, working in that club. This one’s different, though, isn’t she?”

“No.” The bells. The f*cking church bells are ringing in her head. I just know it.

“I’m your mama, Ben. I know when you’re lying.” She pauses. “You haven’t been this relaxed at home in years.”

I can do nothing but sigh. She’s right, to be honest. Usually when I turn into this driveway, all I can think about is how lonely the place is, how much fun I used to have here. But today, I got to see it all new again through Reese’s eyes, which lit up as she took it in.

I glance over to see her ass sticking out from the backseat as she loads the food in and I chuckle, a flash of Cancún hitting me. “Think whatever you want, Mama, but don’t get your hopes up.”

“I don’t know why you have to be so thick-headed about settling down.”

“You know exactly why,” I remind her softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “See you next weekend.” I’m halfway toward the car when I remember why she called me. “That tractor needs a good tune-up is all. Don’t let Bert sell you on anything more.” That tractor is as old as I am. Years of watching Granddaddy and then Josh working on it has taught me the basics.

“Okay. Thanks, son.”

“No problem.” Mama shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. That sorry hump of flesh hiding out in that old barn should be man enough to do it. Unfortunately, he proved what kind of person he is years ago.

Reaching Reese, I slide the box into the backseat.

“She could sell this stuff,” Reese murmurs, lifting out one of the jars. “She could have her own little shop, like in a farmers’ market or something.”

“Yeah, she could,” I agree. “A lot of groves have markets on their property nowadays. She talked about doing that but, again, it’s just more work and she’s all alone.”

Reese ponders that, a crooked curl of her lips. “Too bad. That barn would be a great place for it.” She points out the old building.

I fight against the shudder that threatens. It happens every time I think about stepping in there again. “It’s full of saws and shit. My dad’s woodworking tools.”

She nods slowly and I hear the unspoken question. Why didn’t he come eat with us? Why hasn’t he come out to say hello? I already told her more than I usually tell people.

“We should get going.” Waving a hand at the backseat, I add, “And we’ll pretend like you’re getting all of this. Maybe I’ll let you have one jar if you’re really nice to me on the ride home.” My eyes graze over her body. I can’t even think about the afternoon in the grove. It’s torture. In fact, most of this day has been torture. It’s also been a ton of fun.

An impish grin passes across her face. “Wilma! Ben says he’s not sharing if I don’t—”

I hug her from behind, pulling her tight against me as I muffle her yells with my hand. “You brat!” I’m rewarded with a wet tongue against my palm. I start laughing. “After Cancún, you think a bit of spit on my hand is going to gross me out?” Sharp teeth digging into the meaty part of my forefinger a moment later has me jumping back and checking for blood, a curse trying to push its way through my gritted teeth.

“He’ll do no such thing, honey. And if he does, you call me right away. You’ve got the number now,” Mama calls back from the porch.

What? They’re swapping phone numbers? Ah, shit. I’m about to ask when the hell my mother gave Reese her number when the sound of doors rolling on casters fills my ears. The hairs on the nape of my neck instantly spike. I turn just in time to see my father stumble out from inside the barn, his only hand wrapped around a bottle of Wild Turkey, the dank darkness of his workshop a fitting backdrop beyond. The remains of his other arm hangs there, the stump that begins just above his elbow proudly displayed in an old, navy-blue T-shirt.

He normally goes out of his way to keep it covered with a long sleeve, even in the hottest of Florida days, so I know this is intentional. A reminder, for me.

“Joshua, come say hello to Reese,” Mom calls out. I hope Reese can’t hear the strain in her voice. Mama’s worried that we’ll start fighting, but there’s no need. I have nothing left in me for this man. No hatred. Certainly no love. All of that was lost long ago. I’m over him.

Joshua Morris Senior takes slow, steady steps forward and gives Reese a nod, his eyes drifting over her and then shifting to me again.

“Hi, Mr. Morris. I’m a co-worker of Ben’s,” Reese explains. By her voice she sounds at ease, but by her shrewd eyes, narrowing as she regards him, I know she’s anything but. I understand why. I may look like my dad but the hard, cold glare in his eyes separates us completely. Almost hesitantly, she adds, “Jack Warner is my stepfather.”