Ryder lowered himself into the chair beside his mother. The porch boards creaked under his boots as he leaned forward, elbows resting heavy on his knees, eyes fixed on the dried mud clinging to the leather.
“She told me she was fine. She seemed fine,” he muttered, frustration roughening the edge of his voice.
Celeste laid a steady hand over his, soft but unyielding. “I know, Ryder. Don’t go beatin’ yourself b****y over it. You weren’t aware.”
Ryder gave a short nod, jaw tightening as he kept staring down.
“I’ve got a secret to share,” Celeste said, her voice dipped in that slow, honeyed wisdom only Southern women carried.
His eyes lifted, wary but listening.
“Women,” she said with a knowing smile, “we tuck our hurt way down deep. And we do it well. Sometimes it takes more than one as
