Fifteen
Ty and Genevieve didn’t get back until late. And when the rumble of the truck roared up the road, I braced myself for a confrontation—for an opportunity to explain the situation—that never came. Genevieve walked through the door alone.
She didn’t say where Ty had gone, just dove back into preparations for the next morning’s breakfast. Happily humming a tune as if nothing had happened.
Ty must not have told her what he overheard.
The look on his face after he heard Bud’s words haunted me. All the spark, all the energy that seemed to keep him always smiling, always happy, had been extinguished. I hated knowing that I had, in some small—or not so small—part contributed to that loss.
I didn’t want to go to bed without explaining things to him.
I fell asleep at the kitchen table.
