“Yep,” I answered. “Kickass 70’s Movie Night at the Deluxe, though they missed a great marketing opportunity by not naming it that and instead calling it 70’s Masterpiece Theater at the Deluxe.” She smiled big, and having taken in her earlier expression I offered, “Do you want to join us?”

She shook her head. “Love to. Plans with Gazz. Another time.”

I nodded, looked at Rachelle and smiled through my hopefully not too nosy question of, “Can I ask why you were laughing?”

“My son,” Mrs. Miller started to answer the question I’d asked her daughter, so I looked back at her, “was never a kid who sat around watching TV and playing video games. He also didn’t go to movies. He climbed trees. He raced around on that skateboard of his, without a helmet, I’ll add, no matter how often I got on him about that. He’d disappear into the woods or the foothills and be gone all day doing God knows what. Him sitting through a double feature is out of character,” she explained, but it was not really an explanation for why that would be funny.

Then Rachelle gave me the explanation that Mrs. Miller was too well-mannered to give.

“Not even for his bitches back in the day did he sit his ass in a theater. If they didn’t tramp through the woods with him or…” he eyes slid to her Mom, “whatever, they were toast. So it’s hilarious seeing my big, scary, badass brother so… totally… whipped.”

My mouth dropped open, but Mrs. Miller’s snapped loudly, “Rachelle!”

She grinned unrepentantly at her mother and made a whiplash noise.

“I’m not sure Raiden is whipped,” I shared, and Rachelle looked at me.

Then she laid it out.

Scarily, wonderfully, and as Rachelle had a tendency to do, hilariously.

“Your Honor, exhibit A: the pretty girl calls him Raiden when no one calls him Raiden because he f**kin’ hates to be called Raiden,” she said and I stared.

I didn’t know that.

“Rache, don’t say the f-word,” Mrs. Miller hissed.

Rachelle ignored her mother. “Exhibit B: Raid sits his ass in a movie theater, probably spending those hours not watching the movie but thinking of shit he could blow up, tracks he can race on an ATV or other things he could be using that time getting up to with his girl.”

“I’m so sorry, Hanna, when she’s on a roll—” Mrs. Miller started to say to me.

“Exhibit C,” Rachelle pushed on, but her face changed, her eyes locked on me and she finished, “he lets go and laughs. All the f**kin’ time. Finally letting people see he’s actually genuinely happy.”

I knew what she was saying and my throat instantly clogged.

“I’ll get you a white wine,” she stated in conclusion.

She ducked her head, hiding her eyes and moved away.

With difficulty, I swallowed and felt my hand taken in Mrs. Miller’s.

“Can we sit a bit before Raid gets here?” she requested on a hand squeeze.

I nodded. Still coping with Rachelle’s emotional bombs and uncertain about sitting a bit with Raid’s mother, I had no choice, so we moved to a table by the window.

She sat opposite me.

I’d learned, seeing as I was dealing with one of the Millers, so I braced.

It was a good thing to do.

“Don’t let Rachelle upset you,” she said.

“I’m not upset,” I assured her, which was kind of a lie. I was upset, but not in a bad way.

Actually, I was moved.

“We’re just… we’re just…” she looked out the window then back at me, “real happy that he’s settling down.”

I nodded.

Her eyes drifted out the window, and to give her time without my gaze on her, mine did too.

“He talks to you.”

It was barely a whisper, but I heard it and I looked at her.

Her eyes were still out the window.

When I didn’t have a ready answer, she kept going, aiming her words to me but out the window.

“He came back and he…” I watched her pull in breath, “life changes people. Things happen. It’s the way life is, but that was… that wasn’t how he was different.”

Oh God.

She turned her head and looked right at me.

“He was gone. We tried, Rache and me to… well, he shut us down. He would smile, pretend to be himself, but he wasn’t. A mother knows. A sister knows. He wasn’t our Raid.”

“I know,” I replied softly.

“He’s back,” she declared, and my heart skipped.

“I—”

Her hand shot across the table and closed around mine so hard it caused pain.

“He talks to you.” It wasn’t a statement but a question.

I couldn’t tell her how he did, but he didn’t.

I just said, “Yes, Mrs. Miller. He talks to me.”

“Ruthie, honey, told you to call me Ruthie.”

She did so I nodded again.

Her hand tightened further around mine and I fought back a wince.

“You’ll find out, I pray to God, you’ll find out that a mother has many nightmares. I know that sounds funny, but don’t get me wrong. You’re happy to live with them, because to be a mother, you get to create these tiny little living, breathing dreams that grow up to be splendid things. But for a woman with a son, that’s the worst. When he’s gone. What he’s doing. You pray so much he comes back safe, you forget to pray to God to keep him safe from all the ways he could be damaged. My son was damaged.”

Her hand lifted mine an inch off the table and her eyes got bright.

Mine did too.

“Thank you for fixing him,” she whispered.

I held her hand tight right back, leaned in and said gently, but honestly, “My work isn’t done, Ruthie.”

“I’m sure. But I have faith in you.”

Oh God.

I swallowed back the tears.

“I’ll do my best,” I promised.

“You already are.”

Seriously. This was beautiful, but I could take no more.

“You know,” I blurted, “Grams would lose it if she saw me, a Boudreaux, crying in the local café.”

“Then pull yourself together, bitch,” Rachelle, there with my wine and setting it on the table, declared. “Suck that back.” She advised and turned to her mother. “Mom, Raid walks in here and sees you all mushy with his woman, he’s gonna lose his mind. Suck it up.”