bleeding Christ hanging over it. His suffering-crazed eyes had always frightened her—as if his hanging on the dirty wall was somehow her fault.
She shouldn’t have been curious about this place—her mom changed locations a lot, but “home” remained the same. Widow’s Grove was the final stop on Cora Hart’s rutted road in search of happy.
Priss had bailed off that road ten years ago, when public school set her free with an emancipation proclamation they called a diploma.
The county lady walked across the warped linoleum to the kitchen area. “Just pack a few changes of clothes. We’ll deal with the rest later.” She pulled open a sagging cabinet and peered in.
Head down, Nacho strode to the doorless room on the right. Priss followed. A small, rumpled cot with dingy sheets took up one corner of the eight-by-eight room. Nacho pulled a backpack from under the bed and stuffed it with clothes from a stack of plastic storage bins. Priss had had that same dresser, growing up.
He glanced at the schoolbooks lying on the bed, then shot a sly look at Priss. She just shrugged. None of her concern if he left them behind. He pushed past her, stopped in the bathroom only long enough to pick up his toothbrush and jammed it in the outside pocket of the backpack.
Outside the bathroom door he reached for a small, ornate iron cross hanging on the wall beside his head. He lifted the cross off the hook, dropped it into the backpack and snapped the bag’s flap closed. His eyes cut to her again. Sad, moist eyes.
She remembered that cross. According to her mother it had been passed down from her Spanish ancestors; it was her proudest possession. A gossamer wisp of nostalgia floated through Priss’s chest before she could quash it.
Pushing away from the wall, she sauntered to the kitchen area feigning untouchable indifference. “What happens to all this stuff?”
Ms. Barnes handed Priss her business card. “Anything of value will be sold to reimburse the State for her medical care.” Her pinched lips told Priss what she thought of that likelihood.
“Oh, I don’t know. A museum might want the TV.”
Nacho walked by her. “Museums don’t pay for things, stupid.”
She smiled. He sounded like her. “You’ve got a point there, kid.”
He stopped in front of the social worker who stood washing her hands at the sink. “I could stay here. There’s food, and I know how to cook.”
“I’m not sure I’d call what’s in that refrigerator food. You’re ten years old. You cannot live by yourself.”
“She could stay with me.” The thumb he threw over his shoulder pointed at Priss.
She backed away. “Oh, no. Uh-uh. I’ve been there and done that. Couldn’t afford the T-shirt.” Alarm raced along her skin, chasing the goose bumps.
It didn’t matter that she was grown, had a life of her own and some money in the bank. Her first instinct was that someone was going to force her to stay here. Forever.
Claustrophobia bloomed like squid’s ink in her brain. In a panic she rushed out of the apartment. Outside in the clean air, she pulled in deep, grateful lungfuls, exhaling the past.
Her ears buzzed. Exhaustion or déjà vu? Maybe both.
Nacho barreled past her, stopped in the weeds and chest heaving, looked at her, his eyes full of betrayal. “Don’t you think I know nobody wants me?” His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
The pain and animosity on the kid’s face brought it all back—a slap-in-the-face reminder of why she had never come back.
Ms. Barnes stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her. “Now, now, Ignacio. I understand that you’ve had an emotional day. But anger will not serve you well.”
“My mom’s dead. My dad’s in prison. And this one—” he jerked a thumb at Priss “—is useless.” He spit into the weeds. “Fine. Take me. I don’t give a shit.” He stalked to the car and stood with his back to them, shoulders square, head up.
Way to go, Mom. As usual, you bail and leave someone else to be responsible. Well, I didn’t sign up for this. It’s not my problem.
She strode to her car, got in, and peeled out, tires squealing as she made her way back to her life.
* * *
WHEN THE GUNMETAL-GRAY ocean rose in the horizon of her windshield, Priss realized she’d made a wrong turn. No surprise, since she couldn’t recall the roads she’d taken to get here.
Idling at the corner of whatever and Pacific Coast Highway, she stared at the moody water until a driver honked behind her. Her mind still churning, she pulled across the road to an empty parking lot on the deserted beach.
Memories banged at the door she’d locked years ago and her head pounded with the hammering. Jesus, the smell in that apartment. She thought she’d forgotten it but when she stepped inside that hole it was all there, waiting for her.
She switched off the engine and Mona settled with a wheeze. Opening the door, she stepped into the wind. It was much colder here than inland. Her eyes watered, so she closed them and absorbed the astringent scent of timeless salt caverns at the bottom of the ocean. Zipping her leather jacket, she floundered through the loose sand to where the waves pounded the beach smooth, making walking easier. She walked, watching the little bubbles that rose with each wave’s retreat.
She ached for the mindless drift of Colorado. Those days when Ryan was home and they’d make love in the long, languid mornings until her skin burned all over from passion and his beard stubble. Reading him the comics, tangled in the sheets and sunlight.
Ryan was fun-loving, and no more interested in ties than she. They fit.
She lifted her face to the wind. But Boulder hadn’t really been like that in a while, had it? Certainly not the sex part, anyway. She couldn’t exactly say when it happened, but things were off, somehow. Ryan was on the road more this spring, putting on skateboard tournaments, or filming them. And when they spoke over the phone he seemed distracted, distant.
Her temp office jobs felt mundane lately. And when she wandered down to the bar with her friends, the laughter there sounded forced, almost fiercely jolly—as if a sparkly facade would make happiness sink in and become real.
A bit cynical maybe, but you’ve been to your mother’s grave today. That’s bound to stir the shit on the bottom of the tank.
But Priss was the one who demanded truth above all. She couldn’t lie to herself. She knew what was wrong. Her perfect, shiny gold life was flaking away, revealing a cheap dime-store bauble underneath.
And that scared the crap out of her.
What if she’d run from her mother’s world—the grinding poverty and the bogus rosy future of the next man at the bar—only to settle for an upscale version of the same life?
She crammed her icy fists into the pockets of her jacket. She had made sure not to get trapped by the chains that had held her mother captive. Priscilla Hart wasn’t getting tied to anything: a man, kids or a dead-end job. Better to just fly above it all. Jettison weight and take in the good things that came to her.
That philosophy had served her well for ten years. The past stayed in the past, and the present...
If Colorado had lost its shine, there were lots of other places to explore. She turned her back to the ceaseless wind and let it push her to her car. Maybe it was time to hit the road and get out of Boulder. There were plenty of other chances just waiting for her to swoop in and claim them.
The comforting thought lasted until she slid into Mona, turned the key, and hit the button to raise the top. The cold had whipped past her flimsy barrier of skin and muscle to freeze-dry her bones.
Nacho.
He was a good-looking kid with his dark eyes, soft mouth, and the