This was supposed to be a dinner for Mom, Dad, Chace and me. Then Liza found out about it (Dad and his big mouth). Now she and Boyd and her kids were coming and it was a pre-birthday bash for her son, Jarot.
Don’t ask me about the name Jarot. I told her he’d be teased and called “carrot” and he was. She loved the name and she was Liza, when she loved something she was perfectly willing to pitch numerous fits to get it. So Boyd gave in mostly to shut her up. Luckily, he gave in after demanding the right to name their second kid. His name was Robert. Suffice it to say, Robbie didn’t get teased on the playground.
Then again, Robbie was a bruiser.
Jarot played with Legos all the fraking time and Liza, Boyd and Dad were convinced, with the stuff he built, that he was going to be an architect.
He was almost nine.
Robbie had been sent home from school three times for punching kids in the nose.
He was six.
No one said what they thought Robbie was going to be mostly because the optimistic choice was the next Great White Hope in the boxing ring. But the practical one was he was going to be a drug dealer’s enforcer.
“Oh, all right,” I gave in on a mutter then settled back in.
Chace’s hand at my cheek sifted back through my hair before it fell away and his hand at my spine went back to drifting.
I relaxed.
“We’ll find him, Faye.”
It was quiet but it was a promise.
I pressed closer.
He knew I was worried and he didn’t like it.
But I knew he was worried too. Although I didn’t want him to be, I liked that he was for a kid he didn’t know.
“Okay, honey.”
“Sleep,” he urged.
“Okay.”
“’Night baby.”
“’Night, Chace.”
His hand quit drifting and his arm gave me another squeeze then his hand went back to drifting.
As it moved, my mind quit drifting and my eyes closed.
Then I did as Chace urged. Tucked close to him, I slept.
Chapter Twelve
Family
Faye’s fidgeting beside him in his truck caught his attention so Chace reached out a hand and tagged hers. He linked their fingers and pulled their hands to his thigh.
They were on their way to her parents’ house and she was anxious. This was, she told him when he gently pressed it out of her, not because she was worried about what they would think of him. But what he would think of them.
“They’re a little um… nutty,” she’d said.
“There’s good nutty and bad nutty. My guess is they’re good nutty,” he’d replied.