Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"Alright, bud," I say to Hercules, unclipping his leash and scratching under his chin. "Go find grandma."
He takes off like he's been waiting for permission, nails clicking against the floor as he disappears toward the kitchen, and a second later I hear my mom's voice lift into that sing-song tone she only uses with him.
I hang the leash on the hook by the door and follow, already knowing what I'm walking into.
She's at the counter, working through a rack of ribs with more focus than most people give their jobs, coating them in dry rub while everything else around her competes for attention. The ingredients for her baked beans are spread across every available surface – brown sugar, bacon, cans half-opened – and there are at least three burners going at once, something simmering on each of them.
Hercules is planted at her feet, perfectly still, watching her like this is the most important moment of his life.
"Woah... watch out, everybody. Hurricane Julianna has hit," I tease, leaning against the doorway. "You know, I vaguely remember when Cole and I were kids, you used to yell at us to clean up after ourselves. Looks like you never learned to follow your own rules."
"Oh, hush," she mutters without looking up. "I'm doing three things at once and I'm very busy. If you're here to help me, great. If not, you can go outside and make yourself useful."
I hold my hands up. "I'm just saying, it's okay that you turn into a chaotic fucking mess when you have to cook for more than just dad."
"Greyson Knox – language." She turns, pointing at me with a finger coated in barbeque sauce. "And you know my ADD is undiagnosed."
I glance down at Hercules. "Uh-oh, Herc. She middle-named me. That means we're in trouble."
He bounces on his front paw, whining, so I reach for a piece of bacon, handing it to him before she can scold me about it. She watches me do it but doesn't dare stop me.
She caters to my dog even more than I do.
"So, have you seen her?"
The question comes out of nowhere, but not really.
I don't answer right away. The beach flashes through my mind instead before I can stop it – sand, salt air, the way she looked at me like she was trying to hold her ground and figure me out at the same time – and it doesn't stop there, doesn't stay contained to just that moment. It drags everything else up with it, one after another without asking permission.
Maribelle's Diner, her voice cutting through the noise like she had every right to be there.
Jenkins Bar, the tension sitting thick between us, unfinished and going nowhere.
Climax, flashing lights, too loud, too crowded, and somehow still not enough to drown her out.
South Grove Hospital, hours that stretched longer than they should have, waiting for someone – anyone – to tell me something about her that didn't leave room for the worst of it.
