Page 112 of Hot Shot

Now it’s my turn to sigh, and the knot in my chest loosens just a little. “Okay,” I promise, though silently I give myself permission to change my mind.

“Be there in a sec.”

“‘Kay.”

I slip my phone in my jacket pocket and wrap my arms around Cricket, who’s still sniffling. Her head is the perfect height to fit under my chin, so I rest it there, staring at a spot on the pavement for the length of time it takes Wilder to get there.

He frowns when he sees me. Cricket doesn’t move.

“What happened?” he asks, and I tell him. Understanding passes across his face. “The radiator. I knew it was going to need a new one, but I was hoping it’d hold out. Let me take a look at it.”

Cricket jolts, screaming, “No!”

Confused, Wilder glances at me.

“The engine was smoking.”

He nods and kneels to her level. “There’s no fire, bug. The radiator smoked because it probably doesn’t have any fluid and it got hot. I don’t see any more smoke. Do you?”

She shakes her head.

“If there was a fire, there would be smoke. I wouldn’t do anything unsafe. Do you trust me?”

A nod.

“Can I go look at it?”

“Okay.”

He nods once, but he and I share a look when he stands, walks to the truck and pops the hood. Cricket sighs when nothing happens, her muscles softening.

“Come on,” I say, helping her to stand and getting myself up. “Let’s go get in Daddy’s truck.”

We gather our things from my truck and pile into his, waiting quietly for him to inspect the damage. I’m staring off into space again, my mind so full, it rage quit and emptied everything in it. When he lowers the hood and makes his way back to us, he wipes his hands on each other, then inspects them. Whatever he finds has him veering to the big silver storage box in the bed, returning with a rag.

“It’s definitely the radiator.” The door thumps shut. When he turns the keys in the ignition, I see him glance at me in my periphery. I break my gaze to offer him a small smile. It doesn’t smooth his frown, but whatever he sees leaves him quiet too.

On the short trip home, he asks Cricket about her day and tells her he missed her when he was gone. Occasionally, he looks at me, but I’m leaning on my elbow, staring at the trees whooshing by. I feel the unspoken pressure to reassure him. To say I’m fine and smile and participate. To keep things happy and even and good. I just don’t have it in me.

Wilder helps Cricket out of the truck, grabbing her backpack and the jacket she stripped off and flung to the other side of the cab. And I gather the multitude of bags, all filled with things I needed to do, lugging them inside like sacks of bricks where I dump them unceremoniously on the island with a sigh.

“Okay, bug—go get your bag ready for Nana and Pops, okay?” Wilder says as he hangs up her jacket.

She smiles. “Okay!” And then she’s off, running through the house, happy as a clam again.

I climb onto a stool and stare at the bags for a second before starting to unload them. Maybe I can at least get a plan together before we have to leave to drop Cricket off.

“Want a drink?” Wilder asks.

“No, thanks. I’m too tired.”

“I missed you.”

With a weary smile, I answer, “Missed you too.”

“I’m sorry I was gone all week. I didn’t realize it was going to be so busy.”

“It’s always this busy.” The folders I’ve stacked start to slide, but I don’t care. “Anyway, it’s fine. We survived. It’s the weekend. Wine exists. Things could be worse.”

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