for something. He looks at Olivia, shows her the peel. “Keys?”
“Keys?” She frowns, confused, and he gestures with the orange peel. Her stomach twists with unease. She rubs her forehead. “I don’t understand what you mean. You can’t have my keys, and throw that away.”
He frowns. “Throw,” he says, slowly.
“Yes, throw it away,” she repeats, cocking her head. “Are you looking for the trash?” She points at the peelings. “Trash?”
A light bulb goes off in his expression. “Trash. Yes.”
“Well, we compost around here. The bin is under there.” She points at the cabinet under the sink and Josh’s face twists up. “Here, it’s under here.” She opens the cabinet in a rush and shows him the small composting bucket. He dumps the orange peel and backs up, turning away from her as he wipes his face with his sweatshirt sleeves.
She releases a long, ragged breath of relief—she deciphered what he wanted—but then her gaze meets his. His eyes shimmer. Hers widen with apprehension. “Whoa. What’s wrong?”
“Hit . . . my . . .” He glances away and drags a hand over his damp eyes.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. What did you hit?” She didn’t catch that last part.
He taps his head.
She shirks back. “You hit your head?” She rubs at her throat, trying to make sense of what he’s telling her. “When?”
“Before . . . back.”
“Before you got here?”
He nods. “Back . . . long before . . . here.”
Long before here? She frowns. “You mean you hit your head a while ago?” He nods. “Okay, wow.” She backs up and leans against the counter. “Is that why you confused the orange with a peach?” She gestures at the partially eaten fruit.
He nods. “Confuse words. Hard to drive . . . fumble . . . fuck.” Olivia blinks at the out-of-the-blue f-bomb. He presses his lips tight and exhales roughly through his nose. “Find,” he says, finally, and his shoulders droop.
Olivia tries to assemble what he’s told her. “It’s hard for you to find words?” He nods, his chin tucked into his chest, and she wants to scream at Lily for losing sight of her son.
The poor kid. The simple act of talking must be a mountain of a road bump. Embarrassing, to say the least, given the way he seems to want to curl into himself.
What condition would cause him to confuse words? She’ll have to look that up. She could call Mike, which did make her wonder . . . “Do you need a doctor?”
His eyes widened and he shook his head hard.
“Well, you let me know if you do. Okay?”
He shrugs, his head hanging low.
“Here, sit down,” she says, feeling sorry for him. She fixes his chair, pats the seat. He can calm down while she gets her own nerves under control. He settles into the chair and she backs away, her hands shaking. She’s so unprepared for this. Kids are alien to her. She’s never interacted with them let alone carry on a conversation. And this kid can barely get a word out.
Keeping her hands busy, she washes Amber’s glass, willing the trembling to subside.
As the wine residue rinses away, a flicker of fear finds its way inside. Josh said Lily was gone. If he’s mixing words, he could have meant exactly what Olivia asked out front. Lily is dead.
The sponge drops with a splat in the sink. Olivia has resented Lily for years, but she never wished she’d die. In the back of her mind, she reasoned she’d see her again one of these days. She’d eventually get the chance to let Lily know how much her sister hurt her.
Will she ever come to terms with Lily’s demise? Can she without closure? And what is she supposed to do with her son?
She grabs the sponge and squeezes out the water. If something has happened to Lily, she’ll have to track down Ethan, because the one thing harder than looking at and talking to his son, knowing Josh or a boy like him could easily have been hers, would be raising him.
The doorbell rings and Olivia startles. Josh tenses, his eyes on the front door like a cat primed to bolt.
“It’s only dinner,” she says, drying her hands while willing her racing heart to ease up on its drumroll. His gaze moves apprehensively between her and the front door. He slides his legs out from under the table and grabs his backpack. Taking a cue from Amber, she simplifies her words, gestures with her hands. “Food. Burgers.”