Stephen was there, standing by the tailgate of his new silver pickup truck, lifting a heavy red steel toolbox out of the bed. He wore his work boots and a clean canvas vest, looking every bit the successful independent contractor he liked the neighbors to see.
“Cara,” he said, not setting the toolbox down as I stepped out of my car. “You usually call before you drop by.”
“Dustin showed me his arm last night, Stephen,” I said, walking to the edge of the stamped concrete.
He set the toolbox on the tailgate with a metallic clang, his gold watch catching the afternoon sun as he checked the face. “It is a beautiful tribute. The kid wanted to show some respect for the woman who helps keep this family together.”
“Barbra is his stepmother, Stephen, and she has been in his life for three years,” I said, taking off my glasses to polish them with the hem of my cardigan. “He is eighteen. He has a tuition bill of twelve thousand four hundred dollars due in less than a month.”
“The boy has a heart,” Stephen said, dismissing my tone with a quick wave of his hand. “It was a spontaneous act of love. You always have to make everything about spreadsheets and deadlines.”
“Spontaneous acts do not usually involve five hundred dollars in cash from a man who claims his business accounts are frozen,” I said.
“I had some extra from the drywall job on Elm Street,” Stephen said, his voice turning cool and transactional. “I suggested a meaningful gesture, and he agreed.”
He picked up the toolbox again, his muscles tightening under his shirt, and walked toward the side garage door without looking back. The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the wide driveway.
The hum of the neighborhood lawnmowers filled the quiet, but my mind was stuck on the way he had checked his watch, as if our son’s skin were just another appointment on his calendar
