Page 93 of The Naughty List

I shrug. “Just Carson. We’re supposed to hang out, but I have no idea what we’re going to do yet.”

She smiles. “I was just talking to his parents yesterday.”

“His mom and his stepdad, Mom. Not parents,” I point out on his behalf.

She waves a hand through the air. “You know what I mean. They didn’t mention him coming home this weekend. He doesn’t come home often, you know?”

“I do know, and I’m sure they didn’t mention it because it’s none of your business,” I joke. She’s always been such a busybody.

She gasps. “What? It’s not like I was prodding them for information.”

I laugh. “I’m just joking, Mom. But maybe he hadn’t told them yet or maybe he’s planning on staying at a hotel and not seeing them. You know how rocky their relationship is.”

She nods. “I know, but at some point, they’re going to have to let all of that go. Connie is a wonderful lady and Jack, he’s a good man.”

“Sure, what you know of them.” That’s not fair; his mom is a wonderful lady and I haven’t had to deal with Jack much, but what I’ve learned, he seems okay enough. “It’s just that his parents’ divorce took a toll on him. And then even after, they kept using him as a pawn in their game. He doesn’t have the best relationship with either of them.”

“Well, he turned out okay, so there’s that.”

“He turned out okay because he’s strong and smart. He put in the work he needed to do to get to where he is. It has very little to do with either of his parents or his stepfather.” I don’t know why I’m getting so annoyed with this conversation. It has nothing to do with me, but I remember his parents’ divorce was one of the key things that built our relationship as kids. He was always outside, trying to escape their yelling and fighting. That drove him right to me, the girl next door.

“Why are you sitting out here all alone for?” I ask as I sit at his side on the curb.

He shrugs, and we’re so close, when his shoulder lifts up and falls, it rubs against mine.

“Parents fighting again?” I ask, and he nods. “At least you have parents to fight. I only got my mom.”

“I’d rather have one happy parent than two miserable ones,” he says, seeming wise beyond his years.

I guess he does have a point there. I don’t reply as I divert my eyes to the street in front of us, watching as our neighbor’s cat lounges in the warm road due to no traffic in our small town.

“Well, you want to sit here pouting or you want to do something fun?”

He looks at me from the corner of his eyes. “What do you want to do?” he breathes out.

I stand up excitedly but try to hold it off in fear of scaring him away. “Let’s go explore the woods behind the house. Maybe we can find a dead body or something.”

He snorts but stands up too. “I’d rather do that than have a tea party or whatever you little girls like to do.” We both start walking toward the tree line behind our houses.

Every day after that, we spend our time in the woods, hiking, talking, laughing, playing hide and seek, and climbing trees. The forest, it’s our happy place. Nobody can touch us out here.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re home,” Mom says, shaking my shoulder.

I open my eyes and see that we’re parked in front of our single-story brick home. There’s a slight glow shining out the living room window and the porch light is on, ready to greet us.

“Who shoveled the driveway?” I ask.

“I pay Mrs. Taylor’s grandson thirty dollars to do it; he always does the sidewalk too.”

“Damn, inflation is crazy.” I shake my head, remembering when Carson and I would walk around asking neighbors if we could shovel their driveway for ten dollars. And we had to split that!

I yawn and undo my seat belt before opening the door and climbing out into the crunch of fresh snow. Mom pops the trunk and gets out the bag of clothing I packed and leads the way to the door. I look up at the Christmas lights that run along the railing of the house and smile; she still uses the big colored ones that are currently set to chase one another in a specific pattern. I used to always want them on the setting that looked like a strobe light, but my mom told me it was obnoxious for the neighbors and people driving by. I’m still partially asleep and trudging toward the door when Carson’s mom comes walking off her porch.

“Felicity, is that you?”

“It’s me, Mrs. Hamilton,” I reply, my feet coming to a stop on their journey.

“Look at you!” she says, stepping into the brightness from the outside porch light. “I haven’t seen you in years. You look so grown up,” she says, pulling me in for a tight hug.

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