Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill Read Free Book Online Page B

“So where do you work?”
    â€œI run my own business. Just getting started.” She probably hates lawyers. No need to spoil this. I hand her a card, face down.
    â€œGreat. Thanks.” Ava tucks it away. A whistle blows, long and loud. Game time again. Her eyes dart from the ball field to the Range Rover.
    She puts a hand to her lips. The next thing I know, the man by the Range Rover opens the door, climbs inside, and guns the engine. The tires dig into the dark red dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust as he drives away.
    What the hell?
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse us.” Pink-cheeked, Ava stands up and hoists Sam to her hip. His tiny foot grazes the popcorn, spilling the contents of the bag. Puffed kernels scatter around her hot dog and Coke as she steps over the bench and hurries away.
    I can’t help but watch her leave. The sunshine on her hair, the curve of her hip, the way her arms wrap around the baby. She’s talking to Sam, tilting her head to look at his face. Then, she steps into the crowd and disappears.
    Damn . My appetite vaporizes. Ava’s husband must be out of his mind.

CHAPTER 11
    AVA
    FRIDAY, MARCH 26
    Sam, rag-doll tired and fussy, finally plops his head on my shoulder. A dull ache travels down the small of my back. It’s growing dark, and the cicadas greet the evening with a loud, chirping chorus. The final glow of tonight’s brilliant sunset, dark reds and purple, fades into the night through the branches of giant oak trees high above us.
    I’d turned down several rides home, thinking my husband would be back any minute. It’s been almost two hours. Dinnertime, and the thought of grilled steak sets my stomach rumbling. I’m afraid to even ask Jack if he’s hungry, as I have nothing to feed him or Sam. I’m stuck at a dusty soccer field with a baby, an eight-year-old, and no vehicle.
    I am baffled, hurt, and a little scared. For a moment, I think about how easy life used to be before I was a wife and mother of two. People tell you that marriage and motherhood are the hardest job in the world. Naive me, I didn’t believe it.
    As if he can read my thoughts, Sam whimpers, reaches for a handful of my hair, and pulls. I take it as a reminder to be thankful for my blessings despite the mess I’m in. Message delivered. Gently, I untangle the strands from his chubby fingers, rubbing my nose with his and making him laugh. “Love you,” I murmur.
    It’s then I notice that Jack has edged at least three feet away. Shoulders hunched, he’s scuffing the dirt with the toe of his cleat. Biting my lip, I step closer and rub his damp head.
    â€œGood game today, honey,” I say. “You really tried hard.”
    Jack shrugs and doesn’t answer. The loss was devastating, and his silence pierces my heart.
    I try again. “You’re sure your dad didn’t say where he was going?” I ask.
    He frowns and continues poking the dirt. “Nope.”
    An invisible wall shoots up between us. This is the old Jack. Lonely, lost, and wounded.
    As the school counselor at Mobile Prep, it was my job to know about the kids who needed extra attention, the students who were failing, the teenagers having trouble at home. In Jack’s case, it was simple—he was new to the school—and didn’t quite fit in yet.
    The week school started that year was insane. Over the course of five days, a pregnant teen from a devout Catholic family confessed she’d made an appointment for an abortion. Our salutatorian—with at least a dozen full-ride college scholarships—joined the Marines but couldn’t figure out how to break it to his parents. Worst of all, someone stuffed peanuts into the sandwich of a highly allergic kid. Guess who wielded the EpiPen? That’s right. Yours truly.
    Jack Carson wasn’t nearly as overt. He didn’t draw any attention to himself, walled off the world, and didn’t make