Just One of the Guys(61)

“I’ll shut up now,” I tell my dog, who is snuffling at the door. “Let’s go for that run.”

Buttercup lopes at my side, surprising me with her energy level. Next week, we have an appointment to get her spayed, so she may well return to her prepubescent level of malaise. But for now, her ears flop and her jowls undulate. We head for the cemetery. My ulterior motive is firmly in place, and my timing is perfect.

Trevor’s pickup truck is there. He’s kneeling in the dirt next to his sister’s grave and looks up in surprise when he hears Buttercup’s tags jingling.

“Hi,” he says, rising. His jeans are muddy at the knees. “What are you doing here?”

My dog and I slow to a walk, then stop. “Well, now that I know Buttercup is capable of forward movement, I thought I’d take her with me when I run. She could use some exercise. I saw your truck and here we are.”

If he doesn’t buy my story, he also doesn’t let on. Blushing, I unclip Buttercup and let her go snuffling amid the gravestones, her tail slicing audibly through the air, nose glued to the ground like her bloodhound ancestors. She woofs softly and continues, happy as the proverbial clam. Trevor watches her go.

I glance down at his sister’s grave, the girl who was briefly my friend. As is typical on the graves of children, there is an ocean of pain expressed. Michelle Anne Meade, our beautiful girl, forever in our broken hearts. We miss you, little angel. My eyes fill. Had she had the chance to grow up, we might still have been friends. She might have made Trevor an official uncle, instead of having that title be honorary. Her parents might not have divorced, and Trevor might not have been so alone.

I knew he’d be here. Michelle died on Mother’s Day. I can’t imagine the pain her mother must have felt, must still feel. What an awful holiday for someone who’s lost a child!

“Want some help?” I ask huskily. There are still six or eight plants left in the tray.

“Sure,” he answers. “You can loosen the roots, okay?”

“Loosening the roots, roger that,” I answer, kneeling next to him. “And thanks for the flowers, Trevor. You didn’t have to.”

“My pleasure,” he says, digging into the dirt with his trowel.

We work in silence—well, he works, I hand—until the plants are in the ground. In another month, they’ll be beautiful, but right now, they look a little forlorn, small and far-spaced in the brown soil.

“How’s your mom?” I ask.

He sighs and sits back on his heels, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans. “She’s okay,” he answers.

“Do you talk to her much?”

“About once a month,” he answers.

It’s hard to imagine—Trevor, the perfect son to both my mother and father, phoning his own mom only once a month. He sees Dad probably five days a week, drops in on Mom frequently, helped Jack put on a new roof on her house last month, went camping with Lucky and Matt last fall…but his own family is like bits of milkweed, blown to the wind.

“Where’s your father these days?” I ask.

“Last I heard from him, he was in Sacramento,” Trevor answers. “You got any more questions?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You can ask whatever you want, Chastity,” he says. He sticks out his hand to help me rise, and I take it, the dirt on both our hands mingling for a brief, warm moment.

“Do you still miss her?” I whisper. Those pesky tears are back. For such a tough guy, you’d think I’d cry less.

“Yes,” he answers, brushing some stray bits of dirt from her gravestone. “Every day.” He pauses, then looks off across the other headstones. Somewhere, wind chimes clink and clang. “Every day, I imagine if she was here, grown up, maybe married. How we’d have dinner at each other’s houses. Stuff like that.” His eyes are sad and soft.

I swallow the fist-size lump in my throat. “She’d have been crazy about you, Trev.”

Trevor smiles. “Thanks.”

“And you’re like our real brother, you know,” I say. I regret the words immediately.

The smile falters. “Thanks again.” He puts the tray in his truck. “You want a ride home?”

“Sure. That’d be great.” I whistle for Buttercup, who comes bounding back, her ears flopping joyfully.

“Do you want to ride in Trevor’s truck?” I ask her. She barks once.

“Genius,” Trevor says, hoisting her into the back of the truck. Buttercup collapses like her legs were shot out from underneath her. His laugh is soft, practically edible, like a river of chocolate.

I climb into the passenger’s seat, noting that my legs are now streaked with dirt. Also, I really should shave more often. And my T-shirt is damp with sweat, gluing Aragorn’s face to my left breast, God bless him. The words None But The King Of Gondor May Command Me are faded with age.

“Did I tell you someone hacked into the Gazette’s Web site?” I ask as Trevor gets in behind the wheel.

“No,” he answers, turning the key. “What happened?”

I fill him in and tell him about the feeling that this was something done to me personally. “Yesterday when I came into work, my little—um, never mind.”

Trevor glances at me as he turns out of the cemetery. “What, Chas?”