I chuckle. “He says they met at a biker bar in Texas—not sure I’d call it sweet, exactly. But they were perfect for each other. She was loud, direct, and sassy, never took his crap, and we all loved her instantly. Maureen helped Wade run the store. I wish you could’ve seen it then. It was the perfect convenience store. Ice-cold sodas, all the best snacks and candy a kid could want, a chest full of ice cream treats, weird random shit like packs of cards and poker chips, magazines and comics, and The Canteen. That’s what Maureen called the bar where she’d serve fountain drinks and hot dogs. I’ve never had a hot dog as good since then. We’d fight over the stools and spin on them until we got dizzy. Or fell off. The G&G was never new or fancy, but it had…”

“Character,” she finishes.

“Exactly.”

She adds Post-It Notes and a flexible ruler to the basket. “So, what changed?”

“Wade and Maureen went out on the lake on his boat, had a lot to drink, fell asleep, and when he woke up, she was gone.”

“Gone?” She stops in her tracks.

“She was found the next day. She drowned. Wade has no idea what happened, only that the authorities concluded that she must’ve fallen overboard during the night. An accident precipitated by alcohol.”

Marina’s entire frame slumps as if she knew Maureen personally. “Grady, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a huge blow to the family, especially Wade.”

“He must’ve been devastated.”

“Still is. Everything fell apart after that. Dad blamed him. Wade blamed himself. They fought about it. Dad said he wouldn’t bring us around him anymore, that he couldn’t be trusted with us. That pretty much ruined their relationship permanently. Sounds harsh, but Dad had a point. Wade buried himself in a bottle.”

“Everyone has a story that defines what comes after and changes them forever.”

“Yeah, like us.”

“Mom used to say I was her story.” Her soft smile hooks my attention. She curves around the aisle’s end, offering slightly more explanation when she says, “She had me young. She wasn’t ready. She’d tell me I was her story but never that it was the one she wanted.”

She laughs lightly, though I don’t know why. I remember her mentioning her mom during her migraine and how she would braid her hair on good days.

“What happened to her?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” She moves into the next aisle, leaving me with this rare insight into her.

I’m not sure what bothers me more—her not knowing where her mom is or her belief that she wasn’t wanted.