Page 33 of Their Stormy Reunion

“And you’re in denial,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “If Michael didn’t cheat, he wanted out. Just admit it.”

“The house was perfect. Four bedrooms, one already set up as a nursery. The kitchen and bathroom were remodeled—everything we wanted. And then, suddenly, he pulls away?”

“Sounds like cold feet to me,” Maddie said, shaking her head and looking at me with pity. It was kind of ruined when I saw tequila dripping off her ear.

“Maybe.” I rubbed my temples. “But it doesn’t make sense. He wanted that house. He wanted us.”

Maddie took another sip of tequila. “Or maybe he wanted out.”

I glared at her. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not here to help. I’m here to drink margaritas and tell you the hard truth. Speaking of which…” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “To tequila—and clarity.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn. Guess we’re a perfect match.”

“Not even close,” I said.

Maddie sighed. “I need to drink tonight. You just gave me a perfect excuse.”

“What? Why?” I demanded to know.

“Never mind. Forget I said that.”

For the first time tonight, I really looked at Maddie and noticed the dark circles under her eyes, like bruises from too many sleepless nights. She was a social worker, primarily working in Jasper Creek and Gatlinburg, and tourist season was just ramping up. She’d told me enough stories over the years, so I knew what this time of year meant for her.

It meant more transient families cramming into dingy motel rooms or pop-up trailers near the mountains. It also meant more unsupervised kids, neglected because their parents were juggling two or three jobs just to scrape by.

I thought of the horror stories Maddie had shared before—the worst being a four- and five-year-old left alone for a week with barely any food. My stomach churned.

“God, Maddie, I’m a shit friend. I haven’t even asked how you’re doing. It’s been all me, me, me. What’s going on in your life? How’s work?”

She waved me off with a flick of her hand. “Same old, same old.”

“Yeah, right,” I shot back, folding my arms. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I’ve been in bed early lots the last couple of weeks,” she insisted, but her tone was about as convincing as a kid caught with cookie crumbs on their face while denying they’d had their hand in the cookie jar.

“Sure, but have you actually been sleeping?”

She took a long gulp of tequila, then set her glass down with a decisive thunk. I raised an eyebrow as she reached for the bottle to top it up.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” I snatched the glass and bottle away, marching to the sink. “If you think tequila’s going to solve this, you’re as delusional as a reality TV star thinking they’re going to win an Oscar.”

“Hey!” she protested, standing up and wobbling. “That was good tequila!”

“Talk to Auntie Fallon,” I said, ignoring her indignation as I poured the rest down the drain. “What’s going on?” I asked as I walked back into the living room.

Madie let out a dramatic sigh and flopped onto the couch like a rag doll. “Fine. There’s a little girl, Reagan. I just can’t seem to shake it, what’s going on with her.”

I nudged her knee. “Tell me about her.”

Maddie’s shoulders slumped. “She’s nine. I’ve had to remove her from her home three times for neglect. Each time, her mom gets her act together just long enough for Reagan to go back, only for the cycle to repeat.”

“Don’t you inspect the house before that happens?”

“Of course. Her mom makes sure everything’s picture-perfect at first. But by month four, Reagan’s back to skipping school, and the principal calls me.”