Page 7 of The Weight of Your Wishes

After a final look in the mirror, I strut into the kitchen. Back straight, chin up. “Good morning, Mom.” She narrows her eyes at me. “And good morning, Uncle Grant.” The uneasy look on his face almost makes me laugh, but I don’t want to break my composure.

Last night, I’d agreed with myself to refer to him as Uncle—figured it would remind me to keep my lust in check but saying it out loud just now freaked me out a bit.

“Good morning to you, too, Hendrix. I hope you made sure your things were all packed last night. Grant wants to get on the road as soon as possible.”

I nod and sit at the dining room table. “Seeing as how my things were already packed to come home, I didn’t need to do anything else.”

She gives me a bland look. “No shit. I was thinking maybe you had things here that you wanted to take with you.”

“Cynthia,” Grant cuts in, “he’s not a kid anymore. I’m sure he’s got what he needs.”

Mom drops the spatula she was holding into the sink; it lands with a loud clatter. “Well, Hendrix doesn’t act his age quite yet, Grant.”

His thick brows set in a hard line.

I watch the exchange with indifference. He always tried to stick up for me like this when I was a kid; it’s one of the reasons I gravitated toward him, but judging from the look on his face, he seems disappointed that he still needs to.

The thought irritates me. He doesn’tneedto stick up for me anymore; like he said, I’m not a kid.

“Anyway,” I cut in, “how long is the drive?”

Mom sets our plates of food in front of us and sits down at her own spot at the table. I tear into the food immediately. My stomach rumbles loudly; I haven’t eaten since the hospital yesterday, since I forgot when we got home. Too much brooding in the solace of my room, I guess.

“About four hours,” he grunts. He never talked much, but I loved when he did. There’s a deep, rumbly quality to his voice that sets my hairs on end. A minuscule moan vibrates in my throat, and it could be because of the delicious food or his voice. Not really sure.

“Where exactly do you live these days?” I ask. He used to live here in the city near us, but when I was twelve, he moved away and didn’t come back until my high school graduation. He sent cards on my birthday though. I guess he probably got tired of doing everything for my mom.

“In a very small town, way out in the marsh. It’s quiet—just the way I like it.”

Sounds about right. I shovel the last couple of bites into my mouth and stand abruptly. My knees bump the table, and my chair grates against the floor. I grit my teeth to conceal my grimace. God damn it, I’m so clumsy. If I could just slow my brain down for one minute, I probably could’ve stood up gracefully like everyone else, but no. Of course not.

“Gonna go bring my things to the truck. Is it unlocked?” I ask while avoiding his gaze.

“The keys are in my room. I’ll get them.” He grabs my plate from the table and takes it to the sink with his.

Shit.I didn’t mean to leave it there; it’d slipped my mind. This whole situation has thrown me off balance, and I’m being more of an idiot than usual.

I scratch the back of my head awkwardly and head to my room to grab my two duffel bags. I heft one up, making a mental note to not forget to come back for the other. When I step back into the hallway, I almost slam right into Grant. “Sorry,” I mumble, and rush past him.

Jesus Christ, Hendrix.The confidence I tried to will into existence earlier is failing miserably. I slip my feet into my slides by the front door and go outside. The contrast between my frigid house and the suffocatingly humid air outside never fails to surprise me, but I love it.

The rubber soles of my shoes drag across the pavement as I meander the rest of the way to Grant’s big, sexy truck. It’s totally black. Of course, he’d have a truck with the power to set my blood on fire. The idea of him up there driving this beast—I heave a sigh. The truck beeps, and I swing open the back door before tossing my duffle on the seat. Then, it's back into the house again.

Mom’s cleaning up the kitchen, and Grant’s standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest. They seem to be in a heated conversation, but as soon as I enter the room, Grant peels his eyes from hers and looks at me with concern contorting his face.

This is getting annoying. “We going or what?”

He gives me a brief nod and grabs his bag. After he walks out the front door, my mom speaks up. “You better not give him a hard time this summer.”

I narrow my eyes and beg myself to not start an argument, but she continues, “Grant didn’t have to do this, but he chose to. I know he misses you. But mark my words, if this backfires, you’ll be on the street. I won’t tolerate your shit any longer.”

And there it is. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom,” I scoff, and grab my other bag, leaving her to stew all by herself. It’s not really clear to me what she expects me to do; she has some warped idea of who I am. She acts like I’m going to steal his things or damage his house or throw a fucking party or something. I just don’t get why she assumes the worst of me.

Whatever. Guess that’s the positive to this situation—not having to deal with her for the next two months.

Without a final glance, I leave this place behind.

Once I’m all situated in the passenger seat, I pull on my seatbelt.Won’t be forgetting that ever again.I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous about being in a vehicle again, but I suck it up and think logically. My little car was essentially a death trap, but this sleek beast is the total opposite. Not to mention, Grant’s completely sober, and something tells me he could drive this thing with his eyes closed. Although I haven’t been in a car with him for a decade, for some reason, I feel at ease.

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