Page 62 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

Translation: I can’t form words when my insides are contorted into knots.

She traces the bumps and grooves of our shared tree. “You’re still nervous about telling Max?”

A deranged laugh almost escapes me. “Mildly.”

Her fingers keep tracing the tree’s gnarly surface. Fungus juts out from the bark between us in semicircular fan shapes, like spaceships got lodged in the trunk. “Beauty in the Breakdown,” she says.

I frown, feeling the stirrings of a headache. “Isn’t that a song?”

“I think so. It’s also this.” She taps the edge of a fungus fan. “Mushrooms grow on dying trees to help them decompose. Eventually, the trees become fertile soil.”

I stretch my jaw, and yeah. Headache central. “Are you saying that when I’m dying”—which, judging by how I’m feeling, might be by the end of this hike—“you’ll cultivate mushrooms in my body to speed up the process?”

“What I’m saying, smart-ass, is I can’t predict how Max will react when you talk to him, but even if he’s mad and lashes out, or if he shuts down, his hurt will settle. Love will grow. He just might need time.”

Yeah, no. Her pep talk isn’t making me feel peppy. Trees can take decades to decompose. A goddamn century. I’m not strong enough to survive without Max. “I know this isn’t about me. I’m more worried about him than anything, but . . .” I trail off, afraid my voice might crack.

“You’re also scared he’ll push you away?”

I give a jerky nod.

She presses a reassuring hand to my forearm. “Give yourself a break, Des. You lost ten years of his life. It’s only natural to think about yourself, how scary it would be to lose more.”

If that happens, it won’t be pretty. But I make a mental note to do a fungus-themed hike for the kids, get them running around, learning to identify different species. They’ll probably like that.

Sadie and I don’t talk more about Max. We watch the kids, while I continue my internal meltdown. I also laugh when Carter pew-pews Max, and Max mimes a dramatic death. Even those two are getting along better. But in an hour, Max might revert to the timid, introverted kid I first met. He might be so distraught that he shuts out his new friends.

By the time we’ve finished our hike, my internal meltdown hits hyperdrive.

I collect the kids’ phones, happy for the distraction. After a quick tally of the most pictures of birds and butterflies captured, I present Olivia with her winning prize: one of my recently finished braided bracelets.

“Oh, wow.” Her face lights up, and she does a little jump. My insides mimic the move. “You made this?”

I hold up my callused hands. “These thick fingers made every knot. And you’ll notice there’s no yellow.”

She laughs, beaming brighter than earlier, and a chuff of pleasure lights me up too. Not sure when she became less terrifying, but I’m actually digging that kid.

Unfortunately, my good mood dips quickly.

The kids start going home, eliminating the buffers between me and today’s life-altering talk. When the last car drives away, all that’s left is Sadie, Max, and my rattling nerves. There’s a small pond and picnic area at the start of this trail. A family of ducks waddles along the pond edge. Clouds blow above with the steady breeze. Sadie and Max are skipping rocks, laughing and egging each other on.

I inhale deeply and walk over, hanging back when I reach them. Feeling separate from my splintered family.

I open my mouth and say Max. At least I thought I did. Only air came out.

I clear my throat and say, “Max,” louder.

They turn, and my kid beams at me. “My mom can’t skip rocks. They just sink.”

She couldn’t skip rocks when she was mine to love either. “Your mom only listens when strangers give her pointers. Like with axe throwing. If it’s someone close, she hates admitting she’s not the best at something.”

She plants her fists on her hips. A study of indignation. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Max and I say in unison.

She laughs, her eyes darting between us. “You two are ganging up on me.”

God, do I want more of this. Ganging up with Max to tease Sadie. Having them heckle me. “We call it like we see it, Sprite.”