Gravy Patterson's Arc

Chapter 7 of 11

Gravy walked back through the yard with the warrant smoke still in his nose. Derek met him halfway, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. Past Derek's shoulder, at the back ring, the woman had set up a small picnic spot — a rough wooden table, a jar of wildflowers, a kettle already steaming. Like she'd done it a hundred times. "Just say it," Gravy said. Derek did not look up. "She came home, man. Last May. Her mom went into the ground that Saturday. She drove eleven hours and slept in the car." He rubbed his neck. "She wanted to tell you. She couldn't." Derek opened his palm. A small gold ring sat in it, a diamond catching the fire. "She had this in her pocket all weekend. For you. She kept it." Gravy stared at it. The cold poutine on the couch. The phone that never rang. A whole year of a story he'd written wrong. He closed Derek's fingers back over the ring. "Not tonight." He looked toward the back ring, at the kettle, at the woman who hadn't run. "She stays. The rest waits." He walked to his fire and turned the meat. The night kept going. Something in him had moved an inch, and an inch was enough.