Losing Grip

Chapter 8➷ I Trust That You'll Be a Gentleman

"Arson, where are we going?" I asked with a deep sigh, blaming myself for believing him earlier.

He answered with a mischievous smile then started whistling a carefree tune, occasionally drumming on the wheel with his fingers.

I knew he noticed the glares I shot him throughout the trip, but he cleverly ignored them and kept his eyes on the road.

A few minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of a modest and beautiful old-fashioned house, almost hidden by the tall pine trees that surrounded it.

"This is your house, isn't it? Why are we at your house, Arson?" I asked, climbing out of the car all the same.

My questions fell on deaf ears as Arson locked his car and joined me on the sidewalk with his shopping bag. As if to help him avoid my question, an old woman across the street sat down in her rocking chair and called out to him.

"Mornin', Mrs. Pillsbury," he said to her, waving. "How's the hip?"

She fixed her rimless glasses onto her nose and stuck out her neck slightly as to better see him.

"As good as new," she replied with a chuckle.

"Do the grandchildren still visit every weekend?"

I smiled at their interaction. Of course, the old ladies loved him!

I looked around, trying to find something to occupy me while they continued their playful conversation.

They lived in a lovely cookie-cutter neighborhood that reminded me of my uncle's in Tennessee. Two years ago, Riley had convinced Dad to let us go alone to his brother's cabin for a weekend. She had a natural aptitude for persuading people, and Dad had been no exception. She even convinced Uncle David, who hated waking up early, to pick us up at 5 in the morning so we could make it in time for the Cleveland Apple Festival.

"Does your mama still make her infamous apple turnover?" I heard Mrs. Pillsbury ask.

"She doesn't bake anymore," Arson said, a hint of nostalgia in the tone of his voice. "She barely gets the time to sit down when she gets home."

The woman nodded in understanding. Arson waved and wished her a lovely afternoon.

I was about to start walking toward the door when Arson held me back. Two bikes zoomed past us on the sidewalk without stopping to make sure we were unharmed.

"Thanks," I said when he let go of my shoulders.

"Saturday is the unofficial bicycle race day," he explained, walking up to the front door, and searching all his pockets. "Oh, man! I forgot my key."

He knocked on the door, and after an awkward pause, he took a few steps back to glimpse at the house number plaque, as to make sure that he was at the right address.

A woman opened the door as he was doing that. She patted down her light green medical scrubs to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Does it look like I just washed this?" she said, pointing at her shirt. "I spilled coffee on it yesterday." She looked down and examined the shirt to make sure the stain had disappeared.

"It looks fine to me," Arson said with a shrug.

"By the way, please learn to use the bell, Arson. We've been over this." She looked up again and finally noticed me. "Oh, hi," she said, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Oh man, I'm falling asleep," she mumbled to herself. "Please come in, guys."

She stepped away from the door to let us in. She used an elastic hair tie she had been wearing as a wristband to hold her hair up in a messy ponytail. Her tousled blonde hair was identical to her son's and looked just as disobedient.