Written in the Scars(74)

“Well, that’s half again more than you, fucker,” he jokes.

Cord shakes his head. “If either of you two knew anything, that truck would be fixed. How long y’all been working on it?”

“Too damn long,” Jiggs groans.

Cord and Jiggs get into the details of the truck in the barn out back. I bow out of the conversation and settle into the recliner in the middle of Jiggs’ living room.

Elin and Lindsay sit in the kitchen, hovered over a computer screen. A pile of brownies sit in front of them, the whole house smelling like baked goods.

This is how it should be. My friends giving each other shit about life, a game on the television, and my wife sitting at the table with her best friend, talking babies while she wears my shirt and her hair is still ruffled from the quick make-out session we had in the garage. Every once in a while she looks over her shoulder at me and catches me staring at her. We share a smile, one of those that half promises something more later, because fuck if she’s not the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen and half makes me feel like a teenager scoping out my crush.

Taking a sip of my beer, I hear my name spoken beside me and I glance over at Jiggs.

“Did ya hear any of that?” he asks me.

“Nope.”

“Cord wonders if there’s a fuse that’s bad.”

I glance at Cord. “Maybe. We didn’t check that yet.”

“Now ya got me wondering,” Jiggs says, standing up. I follow suit.

“I’m gonna take a piss,” Cord says, “then I’ll meet ya both out there.” He disappears down the hall. I grab my jacket off the back of the couch while Jiggs heads to the coat closet by the door.

Slipping on my coat, I head over to Elin. The computer is lit up with row after row of things I can’t imagine a baby would ever need. Ever.

“What in the hell is that thing?” I ask, gathering my wife’s hair back in one hand. The strands are silky in my palm.

“It’s a breastfeeding cushion,” Lindsay starts to say before her phone rings. She glances down at it. “That’s my mom. Do you mind if I answer?”

“Go,” Elin tells her before tipping her head back so she’s looking up at me. “You heading to the barn?”

“Yeah, just for a bit. You ready to go?”

She yawns. “Yeah, I’m tired.”

“You just wanna go to bed with me,” I tease.

“Always.”

“Ready?” Jiggs yells from the entryway.

I kiss Elin on the forehead and make my way to the front of the house.



ELIN

I scroll through the website and add a few things to the favorites list for Lindsay to check out. Clicking one last baby bib that says, “My Aunt Rocks,” I smile as I shut the lid to the computer. Stretching my arms over my head, I yawn again.

“Hey,” a voice drawls out from behind me.

I jump at the intrusion and twist in my seat. “Cord! You scared me. I thought you went to the barn.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, shrugging on his jacket. He eyes me curiously. “What’s going on with you these days?”

“Um,” I say, lifting and dropping my shoulders, “nothing new. What about you?”

“Nothing new over here.”

“Ran into Becca lately?” I hint.

“No,” he chuckles. “I told you that wasn’t going to happen.” He pulls a chair out across from me and sits, shaking his head.

I watch him as he dazes off, his mind clearly somewhere else.

“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He drops his hands on the table, the sound making a thud. “I just . . . I feel . . . lost.”

His words spear me, and instinctively, I place my hand on top of his. A small smile graces his lips at the contact and I wish I could jump up and hug him, but I’m afraid it would break the moment.

“Why do you feel that way?”

“You know how you said you always knew you were going to be a teacher? And how Ty just falls into coaching like it’s what he was born to do? Or the way Lindsay smiles the whole time she’s cuttin’ your hair? Or the way Jiggs never stops trying to work on cars, even though we all know he can’t fix them for shit?”

“Yeah,” I laugh, watching the twinkle grow in his eyes.

“I don’t have that. Y’all have this passion for something, this . . .” He runs his hands through the air, like he’s trying to grab words. “Something you were born to do. Something that was in your blood the day you were brought to this world. You all have a toolbox for life. I don’t.”

“First of all,” I say, tucking a leg under me and settling in for the long haul with this conversation, “I believe you know how much of a mess my life has been. And I do believe it was you that set me straight. It was your tools I borrowed.”