Page 45 of Him Lessons

“Good.” Luke gave a curt nod.

Not particularly liking the air of tension still lingering, Andy smiled gamely. “Any other lessons tonight?”

“Nah. I think we’re good for the day. I need to go home and think on this business.” He raked at his bangs again and cracked a smile. “You mess with my head, Little Bird.”

Andy wasn’t sure she liked being called Little Bird.

But, she had to admit, she rather liked messing with Luke’s head.

Chapter ten

Thedullthudofmetal striking metal was almost as loud as the gasp that slipped from Luke’s mother.

“Oh no!” She swiveled in the driver’s seat of their old Subaru to meet his horrified gaze.

They’d just arrived home after picking up waffle cones — Luke’s absolute favorite — and in his excitement over the treat, he’d forgotten to be careful of his father’s most prized possession: the canary-yellow Corvette parked in the right-hand spot of their narrow two-car garage.

Luke’s mother’s face — all rosy from their trip to the beach that morning — paled as she followed the path the Subaru’s rear-passenger door had taken when he’d pushed it open. “No, no, no," she whimpered, bounding from the car to inspect the damage.

Forgotten was the ice cream dripping down Luke’s hand as he followed suit. Then Mary was there, running up behind him between the two cars. Together they watched with eyes like saucers as the Subaru’s door was pushed shut to reveal the damage Luke had just caused.

The scratch now marring the Corvette’s pristine yellow door was probably no bigger than the width of his pinky. But it seemed huge. Glaringly so.

More stickiness trickled down Luke’s hand, and he had the sudden urge to pee.

But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Nor it seemed, could his big sister. Who was very rarely without words.

Their mother was the first to recover. “It’s okay,” she said as Luke let out a panicky cry. “It’s okay. We’ll just tell him I was carrying my board too close this morning, and when I lifted it onto the roof rack, the fins caught it.”

She nodded her head as though this were a perfectly sound explanation, but even at only eight years old, Luke was smart enough to know his father wouldn’t buy it. There was no way he’d miss the fact that the scratch on his car lined up perfectly with the tiny ding on the door of his mother’s faded blue car. The door Luke always exited from.

His father was going to kill him.

His father was going to kill him.

His father was going to kill him.

The words reverberated as he stared at the scratch.

The scratch that seemed to be growing bigger by the second. Widening actually.

What?

Dark crimson beads emerged from it, droplets of red welling up from sallow yellow. Nausea rolled in Luke’s gut as everything swam out of focus.

“It’s okay,” his mother repeated, voice sounding strangely distant. “I did it, okay. You tell him, I did it.”

Luke shook his head frantically, his hand growing stickier as the gash on the car oozed more violent red droplets.

“It’s over, baby. It’s in the past.”

Luke couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

Something flew into the garage. All the panic coursing through him suddenly dissipated, and his vision came back into focus.

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