Story under the cut . . .
“He’s coming back,” she coos, looking somewhere just over my shoulder. She’s announcing it to no one in particular, to the world.
I blink and shake my head. “Sorry?”
“He’s coming back,” she repeats. Because that clarifies it. When I don’t immediately respond with joy, she turns blank eyes to me and explains, “He’s going to take me to Boston.”
I can only picture the scene on my lawn, when the sheriff showed up just thirty seconds after Beau found out he was going to be a father. “He’s not coming back,” I respond automatically.
She ignores me. “We’ll settle in and I’ll have the baby there.” She grins. “Perfect.”
Possession, intent to distribute, drug trafficking – he broke almost every drug-related law on the books. There were whispers of federal prison, of ten, fifteen, twenty years behind bars. I remind her gently, “Shauna, baby, he got arrested.”
“…and we’re going to teach the baby to ice skate, just as soon as she can stand…”
“Shauna,” I interrupt sternly, “he jumped bail that night.”
“…he coming to get me, now that everything’s all ready back east…”
There must be a way to knock some sense into her. “No one’s seen him since,” I force through clenched teeth. This crazy act is already jumping up and down on my last nerve.
“…he has a job set up, and everything!”
“He won’t risk jail time for you or that mutant in your womb!” I cry out.
Shauna isn’t too happy to hear that.