Page 19 of The Wrong Track

“I have to go,” I told Hazel. “The door will be unlocked.” In fact, the car was already packed up with all my worldly goods: clothes that didn’t fit anymore, a toothbrush, my running shoes from high school that I had managed to hold on to, even after all this time. They were the one thing I had that still went on my body without any tugging or stretching, but I tried not to think about my size. Instead, I examined the seam that I’d repaired in the lining under the seat cushion of the brown chair. Then I left for the library with my backpack full, and when I went from there to the botanical gardens, it was only heavy with new books.

I sat on my stool until it was exactly the minute that I could leave, and then I stiffly slid off it and tried to roll out the kinks in my back before I knocked on my supervisor’s office door. “Selma?”

She looked up at me as I opened it. “Remy. Ok, let’s have it, I knew it was coming.” She waved her hand at me to continue, but she was smiling. “I know you’re quitting on me.”

I nodded. “Sorry.”

“You find something better?”

“I’m moving,” I told her, and she wanted to know where.

“Texas,” I said, because that was back on the table. There was no way they were going to let me into Mexico using my library card as ID.

“Texas. Well, that’s nice. Do you know people there? Got family?” And while I was secretly fuming about being asked that question, again and by someone other than Hazel and her mom, I watched my boss’s gaze fix below the pocket of my sweatshirt. Right at my stomach. Did she know? But she didn’t say a word about it, so I released the breath I’d been holding.

“I have to go. See you, Selma,” I told her, and I left for my new home, my temporary home.

Tobin hadn’t acted like he was surprised to hear from me when I’d called him, and unlike Hazel, he also didn’t act like it was any big deal and that I needed a keeper. “Great,” he told me. “Right at this moment, as we speak, I was wishing you were here to get me some juice.”

“I thought we’d cleared up that I’m not a nurse. I’m also not a waitress,” I’d responded, and he’d laughed. He wasn’t at all mad that I’d said it; he’d known that I was being sassy but took it as a joke, like I’d meant it to be. I’d also let out breath of relief at that.

“I meant, we could share some juice together because I’m thirsty and it would ease your throat for reading,” he’d said. “I fell asleep last night and I missed some of what happened in the book.”

“I marked the page. I can find it again,” I’d answered, and he’d said he was glad and he’d see me later.

There were no other cars in his driveway and I wondered if he was alone. I parked right in front of the garage door because I was going to live here, after all. Then I backed up and put the car in the street, in case he had changed his mind about it.

I knocked and I heard Tobin’s voice call, “Come in!” The door was unlocked, which I would have to change if I was going to stay. I couldn’t live in a place with no security, even if Tobin was a police officer.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he told me as I put down my bag. He was up and on his crutches and looking even better than the night before, like he’d actually rested. I envied that.

“Hi,” he said to me, and I nodded back. “I’m making dinner. I’m reheating a pan of stuff that my mom made,” he corrected himself. “Want some?”

“No, thank you. I ate. I’ll sit with you, though.” I moved to help him take the big dish out of the oven and I also took a plate out of the cupboard where I’d seen them and a fork from the drawer. I passed Tobin a glass of milk when he asked for it after he’d lowered himself into a chair.

“Thank you. It’s the calcium,” he explained. “But I feel like I’m six again. My dad used to drink a glass with me at dinner and he would always make a big deal about getting a milk mustache and how good he looked with it.”

I tried to picture his sourish mom with a guy making jokes about food on his face. “Did he leave you guys or something?”

“What?” Tobin blinked. “No, he passed away. When I was in high school, not that long ago.”

I nodded. Maybe that was why his mom had seemed so pissed. It took a while for the resignation to set in and replace the anger.

“Where are your parents?” he asked me.

“Does your mom cook for you every night?”

He flushed. “No, usually I’m a fully functioning adult. I can even feed myself.”

I hadn’t meant it like that. “I thought it was a nice thing. My mom—” When was the last time I’d said those words? I hadn’t talked about her in four years. “I made most of our dinners once I was big enough,” I said as an explanation. “If your mother does it for you, it’s nice.”

“Your mom wasn’t a fan of cooking?”

“She was working. She had two jobs, usually, and boyfriends took up a lot of her time. I did as much as I could.” When I’d been little, my grandma had been there to help us, but after she’d died I’d taken over for me and Lily.

“What did you make?” he asked.

I thought back. “Just basic stuff that was hard to wreck. I was very bad at first.” As memories bubbled up, I heard myself keep talking. “One time, I forgot there was a pan on the stove and it set on fire. I didn’t know what to do so I put it on the windowsill with flames still in it.” That was why it was a bad idea for an eight-year-old to be in charge of meals, but we hadn’t had much choice. Lily had been hungry and I’d been trying my best.