All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

were far less rough on their furniture than our guys, though the food stains were about equal between them both.

Although we encouraged a no-eating-in-the-living-room policy, there were some things at The Bridge I chose to turn a blind eye to. For my sake as well as theirs. In the nine years I’d worked with kids who’d come from hard places, I’d learned a few things about grace—and it was a lot easier to hand out when I didn’t hold it with a clenched fist.

As we made our way to the picnic shelter in the common area outside, Jake sat on top of one of the wooden tables and planted his NBA-size feet on the bench while I sat at the next table over, watching as he took a crocodile-worthy bite of his Italian sub. Jake had once been a nationally recognized swimmer with a wingspan and an appetite that could rival Michael Phelps. Six years later, not much had changed, other than his now having a stable job as a framer and a fiancée I thought the world of—Clara was a saint.

My stomach growled the instant I unwrapped my sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since after my morning run. “Thanks for bringing this.”

I didn’t miss the way he eyed me. “So what’s up? What’s got you so stressed today—I mean, more than usual.”

“Who says I’m stressed?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the handyman badge you try to wear when you either A, hear bad news, or B, want to control something that can’t be controlled, or C, both. So, which is it?”

Definitely C. I finished chewing and set the remains of my sandwich aside. “I heard from Sharon at the county this morning.”

“Yeah? And?”

“Two boys on our waitlist died in a drug house last night. Overdose.”

I didn’t need to spell it all out for him. He’d been around this world long enough to know what that meant. Not only had our system failed them, but so had we. So had I.

I didn’t know their faces or the details of their stories, but I knew enough. I knew all about teen boys who’d been turned over to the state with nothing but a pocketful of false hope and empty platitudes.

“That’s tough, bro.”

I nodded and stared out at the hills just beyond the guys’ cottage. “I can’t keep turning kids away.”

“You’re not the one turning them away.”

“I may as well be.”

He laughed without humor. “You can’t only focus on the list of kids you can’t help. What about the twenty-four who are here now? Look what you’re doing for them. Not to mention the ones who’ve already successfully transitioned on from here. Don’t forget about them.”

I huffed a short sigh. It didn’t feel like enough. It never did. It probably never would. Not when there were hundreds of kids who aged out in our state each year with nowhere to go and no one to call. “I’m thinking of presenting the expansion proposal at the board meeting next week. It’s time. We have this huge house to offer—and yet our hands are tied due to lack of funding.”

“You know I’m in. I’ve already drawn up the plans. As soon as the trustees give you a green light, I’ll build whatever you need.”

“I know you will. Thanks.” If only the board shared Jake’s enthusiasm for such a project. But I knew what we were up against. Though the board was made up of five respectable leaders in our community, they were realists. I could relate. Still, no matter how many statistics I quoted or how many personal testimonies I shared with them, it would always come down to affordability and sustainability. Taking in more referrals meant more staffing needs, more bedrooms, more supplies, more of everything we couldn’t provide without more funding.

Fir Crest Manor was a dream location without a dream budget. While the main house was used for classes and communal living, it wasn’t used for sleeping quarters, not when our program was co-ed. It was hard enough to enforce the hands-free rule, which was one rule we didn’t leave open for interpretation. I knew what happened when pink and blue were given too much free time together, and we didn’t need any little purples naming Fir Crest Manor on their birth certificates. Thankfully, Glo and Jerry managed the Lavender Cottage and the Bunkhouse well, and what they didn’t catch, our security cameras did. We all slept more soundly knowing that extra layer of overnight accountability was recording.

“You know what would help you? A Black Widow type,” Jake spat out, as if we shared some kind of common Marvel language.

“Excuse me?”

“It might be time to bring on some kind of fundraising powerhouse. Someone who isn’t afraid to kick butt and take names. They can put on one of those fancy shindigs that rich people live for—cash will be flowing faster than Glo can keep the punch bowl filled.” He shrugged. “That’s my vote.”

An immediate image surfaced in my mind. Only it wasn’t of Scarlett Johansson wearing black leather but rather of a woman with billowy blond hair wearing heels that could double as a weapon.

“I don’t believe in fundraising gimmicks. God will provide the way He always has—in His own timing.”

“You also don’t believe in using a kitchen sponge. Doesn’t mean they aren’t necessary at times.”

“A sponge is nothing more than a breeding ground for bacteria. It only serves to circ—”

“Circulate germs. Save it for your residents, Silas. I’ve heard it more times than Aunt Barb’s coin drops in the swear jar at Mom and Dad’s. And that’s saying something.”

At that, I laughed, and Jake did, too. But when we settled, it was clear by the way his knee continued to bounce that Black Widows and swear jars weren’t the only things on his mind.

“Your tell is easy, Jake.”

He glanced at his knee and tried to laugh it off, only we both knew there was something he wanted to ask. The same something he’d avoided asking the last three times we were together. “It’s