Reminders of Him

choosing sides is going to be the downfall of all of us.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KENNA
Here’s the thing.
It shouldn’t matter if a mother isn’t perfect. It shouldn’t matter if she’s
made one big, horrible mistake in the past, or a lot of little ones. If she
wants to see her child, she should be allowed to see her, even if it’s just
once.
I know from experience that if you’re going to grow up with an
imperfect mother, it’s better to grow up knowing your imperfect mother is
fighting for you than to grow up knowing she doesn’t give a shit about you.
There were two years of my life—not consecutive—that were spent in
foster care. My mother wasn’t an addict or an alcoholic. She just wasn’t a
very good mother.
Her neglect was validated when I was seven and she left me alone for
a week when some guy she met at the dealership where she worked offered
to fly her to Hawaii.
A neighbor noticed I was home alone, and even though my mother
told me to lie if anyone asked, I was too scared to lie when the social
worker showed up at our door.
I was placed into a foster family for nine months while my mother
worked to get her rights back. There were a lot of kids and a lot of rules and
it felt more like a strict summer camp, so when my mother finally regained
custody of me, I was relieved.
The second time I was placed in foster care, I was ten. I was the only
foster child, placed with a woman in her sixties named Mona, and I stayed
with her for almost a year.
Mona wasn’t anything spectacular, but the simple fact that she
watched movies with me every now and then, cooked dinner every night,

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and did laundry was more than my own mother ever did. Mona was
average. She was quiet, she wasn’t very funny, she wasn’t even all that fun,
but she was present. She made me feel taken care of.
I realized during the year that I was with Mona that I didn’t need my
mother to be spectacular, or even great. I just wanted my mother to be
adequate enough to not have the state intervene in her parenting. That isn’t
too much for a child to ask of the parent who gave them life. “Just be
adequate. Keep me alive. Don’t leave me alone.”
When my mother regained custody of me for the second time and I
had to leave Mona, it was different than the first time I was returned to her.
I wasn’t excited to see her. I had turned eleven while living with Mona, and
I came home with all the appropriate emotions an eleven-year-old would
develop with a mother like mine.
I knew that I was going back to an environment where I would have to
fend for myself, and I wasn’t happy. I was being returned to a mother who
wasn’t even adequate.
Our relationship never got back on track after that. My mother and I
couldn’t have a conversation without it turning into a fight. After a few
years of this, when I was around fourteen, she eventually stopped trying to
parent me, and instead it felt like I had become her enemy.
But I was self-sufficient by then and didn’t need my mother coming in
twice a week and pretending she had any say over me when she knew
nothing about my life, or who I was as a person. We lived together until I
graduated high school, but we were not friends and there was no
relationship between us whatsoever. When she spoke to me, her words were
insults. Because of that, I eventually just stopped speaking to her. I
preferred the neglect over the verbal abuse.
By the time I met Scotty, it had been two years since I’d heard her
voice.
I thought I’d never speak to her again, not because we had some huge
falling-out, but because our relationship was a burden and I think we both
felt like we’d been set free when that relationship broke down.
I didn’t realize how desperate I would one day become, though.
We had gone almost three years without speaking when I reached out
to her from prison. I was desperate. I was seven months pregnant, Grace
and Patrick had already filed for custody, and because of the length of my

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sentence, I found out they were also petitioning for termination of my
parental rights.
I understood why they were doing it. The baby would need
somewhere to go, and I preferred the Landrys over anyone else I knew,
especially my mother. But to find out they wanted to terminate my rights
permanently was terrifying. That meant I wouldn’t see my daughter at all. I
wouldn’t have say over her, even after my release. But because I had such a
long sentence, and there was no one else I could grant custody of my
daughter to, I had to reach out to the only family member who could
possibly help me.
I thought maybe, if my mother fought for visitation rights as a
grandparent, I could at least be left with some control over what happened
to my daughter in the future. And maybe if my mother had visitation rights
with my daughter, she could bring my baby to the prison after she was born
so I would at least be able to know her.
When my mother walked into the visitation room that day, she had a
smug smile on her face. It wasn’t a smile that said, “I’ve missed you,
Kenna.” It was a smile that said, “This doesn’t surprise me.”
She looked pretty, though. She was wearing a dress, and her hair had
gotten so long since I’d last seen her. It was odd seeing her for the first time
as her equal, rather than as a teenager.
We didn’t hug. There was still so much tension and animosity between
us we didn’t know how to interact.
She sat down and motioned toward my stomach. “This your first?”
I nodded. She didn’t seem excited to be a grandmother.
“I googled you,” she said.
That was her way of saying I read what you did. I dug my thumbnail
into my palm to stop myself from saying something I’d regret. But every
word I wanted to say was a word I’d regret, so we sat there in silence for
the longest time while I tried to figure out where to start.
She tapped her fingers on the table, growing impatient with my
silence. “So? Why am I here, Kenna?” She pointed at my stomach. “You
need me to raise your child?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want her to raise my child. I wanted the
parents who raised a man like Scotty to raise my child, but I also wanted to

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see my child, so as much as I wanted to get up and walk away from her in
that moment, I didn’t.
“No. The paternal grandparents are getting custody of her. But . . .”
My mouth was dry. I could feel my lips sticking together when I said, “I
was hoping you’d petition for visitation rights as the grandmother.”
My mother tilted her head. “Why?”
The baby moved at that moment, almost as if she was begging me not
to ask this woman to have anything to do with her. I felt guilty, but I was
out of options. I swallowed and put my hands on my stomach. “They want
to terminate my rights. If they do that, I’ll never get to see her. But if you
have rights as a grandmother, you could bring her here to see me every now
and then.” I sounded like the six-year-old version of myself. Scared of her,
but still in need of her.
“It’s a five-hour drive,” my mother said.
I didn’t know where she was going with that comment.
“I have a life, Kenna. I don’t have time to take your baby on five-hour
road trips to see her mother in prison every week.”
“I . . . it wouldn’t have to be weekly. Just whenever you can.”
My mother shifted in her seat. She looked angry with me, or annoyed.
I knew she’d be bothered by the drive, but I thought once she saw me, she’d
at least think the drive was worth it. I was at least hoping she’d show up
wanting to redeem herself. I thought maybe, after finding out she was going
to be a grandmother, she’d feel like she got a do-over, and she’d actually try
this time.
“I haven’t received one phone call from you in three years, Kenna.
Now you’re asking for favors?”
I didn’t get a single phone call from her, either, but I didn’t bring that
up. I knew it would only make her angry. Instead, I said, “Please. They’re
going to take my baby.”
There was nothing in my mother’s eyes. No sympathy. No empathy. I
realized in that moment that she was glad she’d gotten rid of me and had no
intention of being a grandmother. I’d expected it. I was just hoping she’d
grown a conscience in the years since I’d last seen her.
“Now you’ll know how I felt every time the state took you from me. I
went through so much to get you back both times, and you never
appreciated it. You never even said thank you.”

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She really wanted a thank-you? She wanted me to thank her for being
so shitty at being a parent that the state took me from her twice?
I stood up and left the room in that moment. She was saying
something to me as I left, but I couldn’t hear her because I was so angry at
myself for being desperate enough to call her. She hadn’t changed. She was
the same self-centered, narcissistic woman I had grown up with.
I was on my own. Completely.
Even the baby still growing in my stomach didn’t belong to me.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LEDGER
Patrick and I started building the swing set in my backyard today. Diem’s
birthday isn’t for a few more weeks, but we figured if we could get it put
together before her party, she and her friends would have something to play
on.
The plan sounded feasible, but neither of us knew building a swing set
would be a lot like building an entire damn house. There are pieces
everywhere, and without instructions, it’s caused Patrick to mutter fuck at
least three times. He rarely ever uses that word.
We’ve avoided talk of Kenna up to this point. He hasn’t brought it up,
so I haven’t brought it up, but I know it’s all he and Grace have been
thinking about since she showed up on our street yesterday.
But I can tell the silence on that subject is about to end, because he
stops working and says, “Welp.”
That’s always the word Patrick uses before he’s about to start a
conversation he doesn’t want to have, or if he’s about to say something he
knows he shouldn’t say. I picked up on it when I was just a teenager. He’d
walk into Scotty’s room to tell me it was time for me to go home, but he’d
never actually say what he intended to say. He’d just talk around it. He’d
tap the door and say, “Welp. Guess you two have school tomorrow.”
Patrick sits in one of my patio chairs and rests his tools on the table.
“It’s been quiet today,” he says.
I’ve learned to decipher the things he doesn’t say. I know he’s
referring to the fact that Kenna hasn’t shown back up.
“How’s Grace?”
“On edge,” he says. “We spoke to our lawyer last night. He assured us
there’s nothing she can legally do at this point. But I think Grace is more

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concerned she’ll do something stupid, like swipe Diem from the T-ball field
when none of us are looking.”
“Kenna wouldn’t do that.”
Patrick laughs half-heartedly. “None of us know her, Ledger. We don’t
know what she’s capable of.”
I know her better than he thinks I do, but I’ll never admit that. But
Patrick may also be right. I know what it’s like to kiss her, but I have no
idea who she is as a human.
She seems to have good intentions, but I’m sure Scotty thought the
same thing about her before she walked away from him when he needed her
the most.
I’m getting loyalty whiplash. One minute I feel horrible for Patrick
and Grace. The next, I feel horrible for Kenna. There has to be a way
everyone can compromise without Diem being the one to suffer.
I take a drink of water to pad the silence, and then I clear my throat.
“Are you at all curious about what she wants? What if she’s not trying to
take Diem? What if she just wants to meet her?”
“Not my concern,” Patrick says abruptly.
“What is?”
“Our suffering is my concern. There’s no way Kenna Rowan can fit
into our lives, or Diem’s life, without it affecting our sanity.” He’s focusing
on the ground now, as if he’s working all this out in his head as it’s coming
out of his mouth. “It’s not that we think she’d be a bad mother. I certainly
don’t think she’d be good. But what would this do to Grace if she were to
have to share that little girl with that woman? If she had to look her in the
eye every week? Or worse . . . what if Kenna somehow made a judge feel
sorry for her and her rights were reinstated? Where would that leave Grace
and me? We already lost Scotty. We can’t lose Scotty’s daughter too. It’s not
worth the risk.”
I get what Patrick is saying. Completely. But I also know that after
getting to know Kenna just over the last couple of days, the hatred I had for
her is starting to turn into something else. Maybe that hatred is turning into
empathy. I feel like that could possibly happen to Patrick and Grace if they
gave her a chance.
Before I can even think of something to say, Patrick reads the
expression on my face. “She killed our son, Ledger. Don’t make us feel

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guilty for not being able to forgive that.”
I wince at Patrick’s response. I’ve somehow hit a nerve with my
silence, but I’m not here to make him feel guilty for the decisions they’ve
made. “I would never do that.”
“I want her out of our lives and out of this town,” Patrick says. “We
won’t feel safe until both of those things happen.”
Patrick’s whole mood has changed. I feel guilty for even suggesting
they entertain Kenna’s reasoning. She got herself here, and instead of
expecting everyone in Scotty’s life to conform to her situation, the easier
and less damaging thing would be for her to accept the consequences of her
actions and respect the decision Scotty’s parents have made.
I wonder what Scotty would have wanted if he could have seen this
outcome. We all know the wreck, while preventable, was also an accident.
But was he mad at her for leaving him? Did he die hating her?
Or would he be ashamed of his parents—and me—for keeping Kenna
from Diem?
I’ll never have that answer, and neither will anyone else. It’s why I
always find something else to focus on when I start wondering if we’re all
going against what Scotty would have wanted.
I lean back in the patio chair and stare at the jungle gym that will
hopefully start to take shape soon. As I stare at it, I think of Scotty. This is
exactly why I tore it down.
“Scotty and I smoked our first cigarette in that jungle gym,” I say to
Patrick. “We were thirteen.”
Patrick laughs and leans back in his chair. He seems relieved that I’ve
changed the subject. “Where did you two get cigarettes at thirteen?”
“My dad’s truck.”
Patrick shakes his head.
“We drank our first beer there. We got high for the first time there.
And if I remember correctly, Scotty had his first kiss there.”
“Who was she?” Patrick asks.
“Dana Freeman. She lived down the street. She was my first kiss too.
That was the only fight me and Scotty ever got into.”
“Who kissed her first?”
“I did. Scotty swooped in like a fucking eagle and took her from me.
Pissed me off, but not because I liked her. I just didn’t like that she chose

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him over me. We didn’t speak for like eight whole hours.”
“Well, it’s only fair. He was so much better looking than you.”
I laugh.
Patrick sighs, and now we’re both thinking about Scotty and it’s
bringing the energy down. I hate how often this happens. I wonder if it’ll
ever start to happen less.
“Do you think Scotty wished I was different?” Patrick asks.
“What do you mean? You were a great dad.”
“I’ve worked in an office crunching sales figures my whole life.
Sometimes I wondered if he ever wished I was something better, like a
firefighter. Or an athlete. I wasn’t the type of dad he could brag about.”
I feel bad that Patrick thinks Scotty would have wanted him to be any
different than he was. I think back to the many conversations Scotty and I
had about our future, and one of those conversations sticks out to me.
“Scotty never wanted to move away,” I say. “He wanted to meet a girl
and have kids and take them to the movies every weekend and to Disney
World every summer. I remember thinking he was crazy when he said that,
because my dreams were way bigger. I told him I wanted to play football
and travel the world and own businesses and have a steady cash flow. I
wasn’t about the simple life like he was,” I say to Patrick. “I remember,
after I told him how important I wanted to be, he said, ‘I don’t want to be
important. I don’t want the pressure. I want to slide under the radar like my
dad, because when he comes home at night, he’s in a good mood.’”
Patrick is quiet for a while, but then he says, “You’re full of shit. He
never said that.”
“I swear,” I say with a laugh. “He said things like that all the time. He
loved you just the way you were.”
Patrick leans forward and stares at the ground, clasping his hands
together. “Thank you for that. Even if it isn’t true.”
“It’s true,” I say, reassuring him. But Patrick still seems sad. I try to
think of one of the lighter stories about Scotty. “One time, we were sitting
inside the jungle gym, and out of nowhere, this pigeon landed in the yard. It
was only three or four feet away from us. Scotty looked at it and said, ‘Is
that a fucking pigeon?’ And I don’t know why, maybe because we were
both high, but we laughed so hard at that. We laughed until we cried. And

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for years, up until he died, every time we’d see something that didn’t make
sense, Scotty would say, ‘Is that a fucking pigeon?’”
Patrick laughs. “That’s why he always said that?”
I nod.
Patrick starts laughing even harder. He laughs until he cries.
And then he just cries.
When the memories start to hit Patrick like this, I always walk away
and leave him alone. He’s not the type who wants comfort when he’s sad.
He just wants solitude.
I go inside and close the door, wondering if it’ll ever get better for him
and Grace. It’s only been five years, but will he still need to cry alone in ten
years? Twenty?
I want so badly for them to heal, but the loss of a child is a wound that
never heals. It makes me wonder if Kenna cries like Patrick and Grace do.
Did she feel that kind of loss when they took Diem from her?
Because if she did, I can’t imagine Grace and Patrick would willingly
allow her to continue to feel it, since they know what it feels like firsthand.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KENNA
Dear Scotty,
I started my new job today. I’m here now, actually. I’m at
orientation and it’s really boring. I’m two hours into
videos about how to properly bag groceries, stack eggs,
keep meats separated, and I’m trying to keep my eyes
open, but I haven’t been sleeping well.
Luckily, I figured out that the orientation videos still
play if I minimize the video tab. I’m writing you this
letter using Microsoft Word.
I used the printer here to print off all the old letters I
typed into Google Docs when I was in prison. I shoved
them into my bag and put them in my employee locker to
hide them because I doubt I’m supposed to be printing
things.
Almost everything I remember about you is
documented. Every important conversation we had.
Every impactful moment that happened after you died.
I spent five years typing letters to you, trying to recall
all the memories I had with you in case Diem wants to
know about you someday. I know your parents have more
to share with her about you than I do, but I still feel like
the part of you I knew is worth sharing.
When I was walking around downtown the other day,
I noticed the antique store was no longer there. It’s a
hardware store now.

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It made me think of the first time we went there and
you bought me all those tiny little rubber hands. We were
a few days from our six-month anniversary, but we were
celebrating it early because I had to work the weekend
shift and wouldn’t get off work in time for us to go out.
We’d both said I love you by that point. We were past
our first kiss, our first time to make love, our first fight.
We had just eaten at a new sushi restaurant
downtown and were browsing antique stores, mostly
window-shopping because it was still light out. We were
holding hands, and every now and then you would stop
and kiss me. We were in that sickening stage of
relationships—the stage I’d never reached with anyone
before you. We were happy, in love, full of hormones,
full of hope.
It was bliss. A bliss we thought would last forever.
You pulled me into the antique store at one point
during our walk and said, “Pick something out. I’ll buy it
for you.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about me, and I want to
buy you something.”
I knew you didn’t have a lot of money. You were
about to graduate college and you planned to start
graduate school full-time. I was still working at Dollar
Days making minimum wage, so I walked toward the
jewelry display, hoping I could find something cheap.
Maybe a bracelet, or a pair of earrings.
But it was a ring that caught my eye. It was dainty
and gold and looked like it belonged on the finger of
someone straight out of the 1800s. There was a pink
stone in the center of it. You noticed the moment I
spotted it because I sucked in a breath.
“You like that one?” you asked.
It was in a case with all the other rings, so you asked
the guy behind the counter if we could see it. The man

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took it out and handed it to you. You slipped it on the ring
finger of my right hand and it fit perfectly. “It’s so
pretty,” I said. It was honestly the prettiest ring I’d ever
seen.
“How much is it?” you asked the guy.
“Four grand. I could probably knock a couple
hundred off. It’s been in the case for a few months.”
Your eyes bulged at that price. “Four grand?” you
asked in disbelief. “Is it a fucking pigeon?”
I sputtered laughter because I had no idea why you
always said that phrase, but it was at least the third time
I’d heard you say it. I also laughed because the ring was
four thousand freaking dollars. I’m not sure I’d ever had
anything on my body worth four thousand dollars.
You grabbed my hand and said, “Hurry. Take it off
before you break it.” You gave it back to the man. There
was a display of tiny rubber hands next to the register.
They were little gag gifts that slipped onto the tips of
fingers so you’d have fifty fingers instead of ten. You
grabbed one and said, “How much are these?”
The man said, “Two bucks.”
You bought me ten of them. One for each finger. It
was the stupidest gift anyone had ever given me, but by
far my favorite.
When we stepped out of the store, we were both
laughing. “Four thousand dollars,” you muttered, shaking
your head. “Does that ring come with a car? Do all rings
cost that much? Do I need to start saving for our
engagement now?” You were slipping the rubber hands
on the tips of my fingers as you ranted about the price of
jewelry.
But your rant made me smile, because it’s the first
time you ever mentioned the word engagement. I think
you noticed what you said because you got quiet after
that.

---

When all the rubber hands were on my fingers, I
touched both of your cheeks. It looked so ridiculous. You
were smiling when you wrapped your hands around my
wrists and kissed my palm.
Then you kissed the palms of all ten of my rubber
hands.
“I have so many fingers now,” I said. “How will you
afford to buy rings for all fifty of my fingers?”
You laughed and pulled me against you. “I’ll figure
out a way. I’ll rob a bank. Or I’ll rob my best friend. He’ll
be rich soon, that lucky bastard.”
You were referring to Ledger, although I’m not sure I
knew that at the time, because I didn’t know Ledger. He
had just signed a contract with the Broncos. I knew very
little about sports, though, and nothing about your
friends.
We were consumed by each other so much we hardly
made time for anyone else. You were in class most days
and I worked most days, so the little time we were able to
spend together, we spent together alone.
I figured that would eventually change. We were just
at points in our lives where we were each other’s priority,
and neither of us saw that as a bad thing because it felt so
good.
You pointed at something in the window of the store
across the street and then you grabbed one of the tiny
plastic hands and you held it as we headed in that
direction.
I had this fantasy that you would someday propose to
me and then we’d get married and have babies and raise
them together in this town because you loved it here, and
I would have loved anywhere you wanted to be. But you
died, and we didn’t get to live out our dream.
And now we never will, because life is a cruel, cruel
thing, the way it picks and chooses who to bully. We’re
given these shitty circumstances and told by society that

---

we, too, can live the American dream. But what they
don’t tell us is that dreams almost never come true.
It’s why they call it the American dream rather than
the American reality.
Our reality is that you’re dead, I’m in orientation for
a shitty job making minimum wage, and our daughter is
being raised by people who aren’t us.
Reality is depressing as fuck.
So is this job.
I should probably get back to it.
Love,
Kenna
Amy put me on the floor after I finished the three hours of orientation
videos. I was nervous at first because I was expecting to shadow someone
my first day, but Amy said, “Make sure the heavy stuff goes on the bottom,
treat the bread and eggs like infants, and you’ll be fine.”
She was right. I’ve been bagging groceries and carrying them out for
customers for two hours now, and so far, it’s just your average low-paying
job.
No one warned me there could be job hazards on the first day, though.
That job hazard is named Ledger, and even though I haven’t laid eyes
on him, I just spotted his ugly orange truck in the parking lot.
My pulse speeds up because I don’t want him to make a scene. I
haven’t seen him since he showed up at my apartment Saturday night to
check on me.
I think I handled myself pretty well. He seemed remorseful for treating
me the way he did, but I kept my cool and acted unfazed, even though his
showing back up definitely fazed me.
It gave me a little bit of hope. If he feels bad enough for how he
treated me, maybe there’s a chance he could eventually grow empathetic
toward my situation.
I’m sure it’s a small chance, but it’s still a chance.

---

Maybe I shouldn’t avoid him. Being in his presence might make him
realize I’m not the monster he thinks I am.
I walk back inside the store and return the grocery cart to the rack.
Amy is behind the customer service counter.
“Can I take a bathroom break?”
“You don’t have to ask permission to pee,” she says. “Remember how
we met? I fake pee every hour when I’m here. It’s the only way I stay
sane.”
I really like her.
I don’t have to use the restroom. I just want to walk around and see if I
can spot Ledger. Part of me hopes he’s here with Diem, but I know he isn’t.
He saw me applying for a job here, which means he’ll likely never bring
Diem inside this store ever again.
I eventually find him in the cereal aisle. I was planning to just spy on
him so I can keep tabs on him while he shops, but he’s at the same end of
the aisle I appear at, and he spots me as soon as I see him. We’re just four
feet apart from one another. He’s holding a box of Fruity Pebbles.
I wonder if those are for Diem.
“You got the job.” Ledger says this without any hint as to whether he
even cares that I got the job, or if he’s bothered by it. I’m sure if he’s that
bothered by it, he would have shopped somewhere else today. It’s not like
he didn’t know I was trying to get a job here.
He’s going to have to find a new store if it bothers him because I’m
not going anywhere. I can’t. No one else will hire me.
I look up from the box of cereal in his hands and immediately wish I
hadn’t. He looks different today. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting or the
fact that when I’m in his presence, I’m attempting not to look at him too
closely. But here in the cereal aisle, the lights seem to illuminate him.
I hate that he looks better under fluorescent lighting. How is that even
possible? His eyes are friendlier, his mouth is even more inviting, and I
don’t like that I’m thinking good things about the man who physically
pulled me away from the house my daughter was in.
I leave the cereal aisle with a new lump in my throat.
I changed my mind; I don’t want to be nice to him. He’s already spent
five years judging me. I’m not going to change his view of me in the aisle

---

of a grocery store, and I get too flustered in his presence to give him any
semblance of a good impression.
I try to time things so that I’m not available when he checks out, but as
karma would have it, the other grocery baggers on duty are all busy. I get
called to his lane to bag his groceries, which means I’ll have to walk them
out to his truck and converse with him and be nice.
I don’t make eye contact with him, but I can feel him watching me as I
separate his food into sacks.
There’s something intimate about knowing what everyone in this town
is buying for their kitchens. I feel like I can almost define a person based on
their groceries. Single women buy a lot of healthy food. Single men buy a
lot of steak and frozen dinners. Large families buy a lot of bulk meat and
produce.
Ledger gets frozen dinners, steak, Worcestershire sauce, Pringles,
animal crackers, Fruity Pebbles, milk, chocolate milk, and a lot more
Gatorade. Based on his selections, I conclude he’s a single guy who spends
a lot of time with my daughter.
The last items the cashier rings up are three cans of SpaghettiOs. I’m
jealous he knows what my daughter likes, and that jealousy shows in the
way I toss the cans into the sack and then into the cart with a thud.
The cashier side-eyes me as Ledger pays for the groceries. Once he
gets his receipt, he folds it up and puts it in his billfold while walking to the
cart. “I can get it.”
“I have to do it,” I say flatly. “Store policy.”
He nods and then leads the way to his truck.
I don’t like that I still find him attractive. I try to look everywhere but
at him as we make our way across the parking lot.
When I was in his bar the other night, before I knew he was the owner,
I couldn’t help but notice how diverse the employees were. That made me
appreciate whoever the owner was. The other two bartenders, Razi and
Roman, are both Black. One of the waitresses is Hispanic.
I like that he’s a figure in my daughter’s life. I want her to be raised by
good people, and even though I barely know Ledger, so far he seems like a
decent human.
When we reach his truck, Ledger takes the Gatorades and puts them in
the back while I unload the rest of his groceries into the back seat opposite

---

the side where Diem’s booster seat is. There’s a pink-and-white scrunchie
on the floorboard. When I’m finished loading his sacks, I stare at the
scrunchie for a few seconds and then reach for it.
There’s a strand of brown hair wrapped around it. I pull at the hair
until it comes loose from the scrunchie. The strand is about seven inches
long and is the exact same color as mine.