Page 17 of Finding Home

“It was pretty bad when I was a little boy. It’s why I went by CJ. Clayton was too hard to say. I would just stumble through my own name. My mom started introducing me to people as CJ, because I could say it without stuttering. My parents put me in speech therapy and slowly, very slowly, I learned to manage it. But it was easier to just not speak and to give one-word responses,” he explained.

“I had no idea. I just thought you were grumpy and didn’t like me. Well, that you didn’t like anyone but Noah. I feel bad that I used to call you Oscar behind your back.” Elle scrunched up her face in self-reproach.

“Oscar?”

“The Grouch.”

“Makes sense.” His eyes warm. “Noah’s mom and my mom are best friends. I’ve known him forever. I have no memories of a life before Noah Wilson. My stutter never bothered him. He’d say it was just how I talked. He knew it bugged me though, so he never forced me to speak. When I did speak, he never looked at me in the way my parents or teachers did.” A sad smile covered his face.

An uncomfortable fullness bloomed in Elle’s chest. She placed her hand on her heart, picturing a tiny, stern-faced Clayton, his mouth drawn tight at the expectant stares of adults. Some waited for this little boy’s words to stumble, while others for them to smoothly flow out of his mouth. Either way, a losing battle of expectations.

“We both had Ms. Lane for Kindergarten. I had to do show and tell and was terrified. When Ms. Lane called on me, Iremember feeling like I was going to puke. I got up, looked at the faces of the other kids, and already imagined their laughter in my ears. I just stood there. Then the whole class began laughing, but not at me. At Noah who was making fart noises against his arm. It distracted everyone and by the time Ms. Lane got control of the class, it was time to go to Art. He saved me.”

“He had your back.”

That uncomfortable fullness in her chest filled with a warmth for the dimpled-smile Noah Wilson coming to the rescue of his best friend. The sweet-natured boy that by default received the role of Mr. Bingley in her imagined high school version ofPride and Prejudicelived up to that role. The boy with ocean-blue eyes was one of the kindest boys she knew. Where other boys teased, Noah complimented. Where other boys were hard, he was soft. Where other boys’ moods seemed to sway with the winds like flimsy tree branches, he was steady like an immovable oak.

“He always has. We’re still good friends. I’m not close to most people from high school, but Noah…” he paused, shaking his head. “I can’t get rid of him. My stutter sometimes comes out if I’m over-tired or emotional. You can’t cure a stutter, but you learn how to deal.”

“That’s so true for so many things. What about Evan, your little brother? Is he as impressive as his big brother and little sister?”

The air shifted again as the pickup rumbled down the gravel road to a parking area. Turning off the engine, he fiddled with the keys while his throat bobbed up and down with unsaid words.

“He died.” With Clayton’s whispered response an ache grew in her heart.

The pale grey of his eyes darkened to weary storm clouds. He clenched and unclenched his hands around the steering wheel as if locked in an inner debate; stay and speak or run.

Like a familiar book, she could read the question with each flex of his hand. She didn’t know when she learned how to read him, but she could. She didn’t ask how or when. She didn’t offer any condolences. Words always failed in moments like this. Evan was dead and Clayton was sad. How do words fix that?

Pulling his hand off the steering wheel, she threaded their fingers. “We can sit here. We can be quiet. I could listen. Or we can run. You choose.” She stared forward, not wanting to steer him in any direction but the one he chose to go.

“Thank y…” he started then stopped as he stumbled over the word.

She made no movement in recognition of his stumble. At that school dance so many years ago, his waiting arms caught her when she almost fell, and she would now catch him. Viet once told her that sometimes catching meant allowing someone to fall without saying anything.

Exhaling a shaky breath, he found his footing. “Thank you. Let’s run.”

“Ok.” She reached for the door with one hand, while his hand held her other.

There was a tug as each reached for their doors bringing them to a halt. Elle was surprised to find she didn’t want to let go.

SEVEN

“Now I must give one smirk, and we may be rational again.”

~Jane Austen,Northanger Abbey

Elle sat at her desk at the Little Red Barn daydreaming about a boy like a teenaged girl.Nope, not a boy.Clayton. A man.She hadn’t done that since high school when she fantasized about Noah Wilson. This was not the behavior of a thirty-six-year-old woman. Groaning, she dropped her head to the desk’s surface knowing that at sixteen or thirty-six, a woman could be susceptible to infatuation. And she was infected.

The vibration of her iPhone disturbed her internal debate.Raising her head, she read the latest updates in her group text with Willa and Viet.

Viet:How’s day one of teleworking from the sticks going?

Elle:Good.Smiley emoji.

Willa: Did you have to use carrier pigeons for your emails?

Elle:No, we have pony express.

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