P.S. I Miss You by Winter Renshaw

Author:Winter Renshaw [Renshaw, Winter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Winter Renshaw
Published: 2018-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

“DOES THIS HAPPEN OFTEN?” I ask when we reach the highway. Sutter’s truck rumbles along an open stretch of pavement, the surroundings getting darker and darker as we grow farther removed from the city. “You having to pick up Tucker?”

“Depends.” His hand tightens at the top of the steering wheel. “What’s your definition of often?”

“Have you ever thought about being his guardian or something? So he could live with you?”

“All the time.” He pauses, like he’s lost in his own head for a moment. “It’s not as simple as it seems. Dad won’t let him go because Tucker’s his key to milking the system.”

“Ugh. I’m so sorry. That must be so frustrating for you. I never had any siblings growing up, but I was really close to my cousin, Maritza, and being the older one, I was always protective of her. I can’t imagine wanting to help someone and feeling so powerless.”

Sutter says nothing, and a solid minute of silence passes between us before he messes with the radio, tunes into a classic rock station, and settles the volume on low.

Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator croons through the speakers, and Sutter takes an exit that leads us to another highway.

I want to ask him more about his childhood, why he’s never mentioned his mother. There are layers to him. I can tell. And I’ve barely broken through the first one.

Maybe if I knew more about him and about his past, it could explain his hot-and-cold antics, his distance and guarded personality.

“So no brothers or sisters?” he asks out of nowhere a few miles later.

“Nope. Only child,” I say.

“So they spoiled the hell out of you.” He states it like it’s an undisputed fact.

“Not at all.” If he only knew. “They made me work for things. I had a job the day I turned sixteen. And growing up, when all my friends would have six-figure birthday parties with celebrity guest appearances, mine would be in Gram’s backyard with close friends and family. Maybe a face painter or balloon animal guy, but nothing extravagant. My parents definitely live in their own little bubble and trust me, they know how to vacation like a couple of filthy rich Americans, but they’re not flashy people. They’re not obnoxious.”

“That’s … that’s actually refreshing to hear.”

“You’re shocked.”

He turns to me, but only for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I am.”

I glance out the passenger window and realize out here, I can see every single star against a canvas of night, like everything is suddenly becoming clearer.

“Can I ask you something?” I turn his way and he shrugs. “Where’s your mom? Why doesn’t she have your brother?”

His full lips merge and his nostrils flare, and I immediately regret asking.

“Gone.”

Folding my hands in my lap, I stay quiet. I don’t pry. If that’s all he wants to give me, then I won’t push it. It’s none of my business, even if the nagging curiosity in me is screaming to ask more questions.

“She left when Tuck was two,” he volunteers.

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