Digging In: A Novel(46)

“I don’t have anything under control,” I said. And it was true. Not my job, not my kid, not my home.

She laughed. “Of course you don’t. But they don’t need to know that.”

Why not invite Miss Khaki and Label Lover? Maybe they’d decide I didn’t need psychiatric help, only help getting my hands dirty. There were also a few women in my neighborhood who offered tips or gave quiet words of encouragement as they walked their dogs past my property. I could invite them. My coworkers, Lukas included, could bulk up the list. I might even extend the olive branch and invite Mr. Eckhardt.

“I’m warming up to the idea,” I said. “A garden party. Never thought I was the type, but I’m learning I’m all kinds of types.”

“That’s a good thing,” Mykia said. “But now you’ve got to focus on practicalities. Where are you going to put the bar?”





CHAPTER 19

“Where are you going?”

I’d picked up Trey from Colin’s and impulsively taken an alternate route on the outskirts of town, down a two-lane highway that led to a succession of new but only partially occupied corporate parks.

“I need to see about something,” I said vaguely as Trey returned to texting. Good, I thought. There’s nothing like the element of surprise.

I pulled into a large parking lot in front of a deserted loading dock. The lot was rectangular and dotted with concrete-bottomed security lights. Perfect. I rolled to a stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Trey asked, finally looking up from his phone.

I unlatched his seat belt. “We’re switching places.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

I kept my tone brisk, no-nonsense. “It’s not about want. It’s about need.”

“I don’t need to do this.”

“You will not be allowed to graduate until you take the driver’s education class. There’s no special dispensation for people who don’t feel like it,” I said, reminding myself that sometimes the strongest love was the tough kind. “You’ve got to face your fear.”

“I’m not afraid. Telling me I am is bullying.”

“I’m afraid, too, Trey. All the time. It doesn’t mean I don’t still take action.”

“Are we living in the same world? You never take action unless you’re forced to. Are you forcing me? I said no. And ‘no,’ as everyone feels the constant need to remind me, should always mean no. You should respect that.”

“Look,” I said, feeling my small reserve of patience shrink to nothing, “this is not an argument or a negotiation, and it has nothing to do with respect. Get in the damn driver’s seat. You don’t even need to put your foot on the gas pedal. Put it in drive, and the car will move slowly on its own. All you need to be concerned with is steering.”

After one long, tense moment, Trey slid his phone into his backpack, taking his time, letting me know that though I’d won, he didn’t have to like it. Raising a teenager was one long battle for power—the parent was losing it but fiercely trying to hold on, and the teen was taking advantage every time a weak spot was revealed, fighting to gain more ground.

We settled into each other’s places. Trey stared blankly out the windshield.

“Adjust the mirrors,” I said gently.

“I know,” he snapped.

Trey took approximately four years to adjust the mirrors to his liking. I turned off the radio; he turned it on and messed with the stations until something appealed. Then he put his hand on the gearshift and . . . did nothing.

“Put your foot on the brake,” I said. “Slide the car into drive.”

Trey flexed his right foot. He grasped the gearshift tightly and tugged it into place.

“Perfect,” I whispered. “Now ease your foot off the brake.”

In the tiniest of increments, he did. The car moved forward with a slight jerk. Trey clutched the wheel with both hands, knuckles going pale.

“What do I do?” he said, panic turning his voice into a screech. “What if I hit something? Or someone?”

“We’re going less than five miles an hour. There’s no one around, and if you hit some concrete, it’ll leave a mark, but I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.” He jerked the wheel to the side to avoid one of the pylons and slammed on the brake. Both of us shot forward.

Trey smashed his hand against the dash, hard. “I can’t do this!”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, you can. You’re thinking too much, and it’s getting in your way.”

“Why aren’t you thinking about it at all?”

I knew what he was talking about, but I wasn’t sure it was the right time to address it. I stayed silent.

“You’re trying to forget what happened,” he continued. “I can’t. I spend every minute thinking about it. I wonder if it hurt, and if he knew what was coming. I think about him crashing into that concrete while you’re worrying about work or digging around in that stupid garden!”

“Trey—”

He pushed the door open with his foot and bolted from the car.

“Trey! Trey!” He sprinted across the parking lot, jumped a divider, and headed toward the highway.