Page 97 of The Pocket Pair

James only grunts. Then he turns to me. “So, this is why you broke Val’s heart?”

I wince, and my mouth goes dry. “Is she okay?”

“I’m not giving any information to you, pal.” Winnie glares. “I get that this is hard. Having a half-brother show up is a blindside. But do you know what Val did when she left here, what she said? She was worried about you. She is crushed and confused and, frankly, devastated, but she wanted me to make sure you were okay.”

The thought of Val caring about me while she’s in pain makes me feel literally ill. I bend over, putting my hands on my knees as I fight for breath, hoping I don’t barf right on the refinished hardwoods.

“I think I need to see someone,” I say when I can speak, still bent in half and panting.

“Like … a wizard? A claims adjuster? A lawyer?”

My sister the comedian. “A counselor,” I say. “Or therapist? Psychiatrist or -cologist or whichever one. I don’t know the difference between any of those. But I think I need one.”

“That may be the smartest thing you’ve said in your whole life,” Winnie says. “I think it’s a great idea.”

James clears his throat, and from my bent-over position, I can see him squeeze her knee with one of his big hands. “I think it would be a great idea for lots of people,” he says pointedly.

“Like you?” Winnie quips.

“Maybe me too,” James says.

With a heavy sigh, Winnie climbs off James’s lap and walks to me, rubbing my back. “Fine. Maybe we should go together, Chev. Talk about our feelings and all that gross stuff.”

“You’d go with me?” I ask, straightening up and eyeing her to see if it’s a trick.

She takes her hand off my back long enough to pinch my side. “Of course I would, you big dope. Now, when do I get to meet this half-brother? Is he coming back?”

“I have no idea. But I have his number if you—if we—want to call him sometime.”

“Okay. But first things first—when and how are you going to fix things with Val? Do you want me to tell her about this or are you going to?”

“I’ll tell her. But I need a little time.” My head still doesn’t feel right. Neither does my heart or anything else. And I’m not going to apologize or try to win her back unless I know I’m really ready and able to commit without breaking her heart the first time something difficult is thrown my way.

That’s if she’d even take me back. But I have to reserve hope for her, for us. Otherwise … I’m not sure what I have left.

Winnie narrows her eyes before hoisting up another box of Val’s. “Tick tock, brother. Your secret won’t keep in this town for long.”

* * *

She’s right about the secrets. By the next morning, news not only of my breakup but rumors of Winnie and I having a half-brother are being discussed. Though I don’t deserve it, I kind of expected a call from Val once she found out about Charlie. Knowing my sister, she might have smashed Val’s phone with a sledgehammer to keep her from calling or texting me first.

I roll up to Mrs. Fleming’s house feeling like a ghost of myself. Sleep was a joke, with stressful dreams punctuating the little sleep I did get. Not even a cold shower could draw me out of this exhausted funk. When I arrive—late—Mr. Silver sits on the hood of a sleek black Mercedes with his arms crossed, and the three boys are waiting on the sidewalk next to Grant.

Mrs. Fleming brandishes a wicked looking rake, and glares at all of them from her front porch. Grant and the boys seem more alarmed by the opossum and her bedazzled leash than the rake.

“Thank goodness you came,” Mrs. Fleming calls to me. “These punk kids look like they’re up to no good.”

Mr. Silver opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “Now, Mrs. Fleming, you can’t go around calling people punks. These boys actually volunteered to come help me clean out your cannons today. They weren’t the ones who put this trash in, but they’re still here to help.”

I choose my words carefully, because at one time, two of them did put some trash in the cannons. Just not THIS trash. “And this is Grant. He’s one of our newer deputies.”

“Fine,” Mrs. Fleming says, setting down the rake and tightening her hold on the possum’s leash.

I pull two trash bags from my truck as well as some rubber gloves. I may feel only halfway here, but I came prepared.

Brady looks horrified. “What kind of trash is in there?”

I shrug and give the best grin I can manage as I snap on a glove. “Don’t know. But I’m not about to stick my hand in someone’s chewed up gum. Or worse. Are you?”

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