The Cantaloupe Thief by Deb Richardson-Moore Page A

years and Davison would be unrecognizable.
    Branigan took a shuddering breath, stopped the cries of Why? before they flew from her mouth. But it was as if he heard them anyway. He shrugged again, turning inward.
    â€œI’m glad to see you,” she managed. “So glad to know you’re okay.”
    He gave her a sad smile.
    â€œ Are you okay?”
    He gave a sideways wag of his head, meaning yes and no.
    â€œI thought it was time to come and see Chan, now that he’s heading to college.” She heard Liam draw a sharp breath. “But I’m having second thoughts,” he said to Liam. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”
    â€œI agree,” Liam said. “Telling him is one thing. Having him see you strung out is another.”
    Branigan cringed. Liam didn’t mince words. Chan knew he was adopted, had known since he was old enough to know the word. But Liam and Liz had never shared the part about his biological parents being drug addicts.
    Davison hung his head. “So here’s what I’m thinking. I’d like to go to rehab, then tell Chan before he leaves for Furman.”
    Liam and Branigan looked at each other. She didn’t know what surprised her more — rehab or that he knew where Chan was going to college.
    â€œI need to tell him he has a royal screw-up for a father. So he can do everything in his power to be different.”
    â€œAll right,” she whispered, gripping her twin’s shoulder. “Sounds like a plan.”
    In the glow of the flashlight, Liam’s face was expressionless. Branigan knew him well enough to know he wasn’t happy.
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    Davison had been younger than Chan was now, sixteen and a junior at Grambling East, when he had his first drink. Branigan saw it happen, saw the light dawn in his eyes. She just didn’t know what she was looking at.
    Gran and Pa had taken their RV to visit Gran’s sister in Texas. They were going to be gone for two weeks, maybe more. Pa had timed the visit to coincide with the selling of chickens, so the chicken houses were empty. Uncle Bobby would take the cattle into his adjoining pastures. That left only the dogs — Cleo’s grandmother and great-uncle, to be precise.
    After driving out to the farm every afternoon after school to feed and play with the German shepherds, Davison and Branigan casually told their parents it would be easier to spend the weekend there. Mrs Powers, who ran an accounting business from their house, was in the middle of tax season. She welcomed the break in cooking. “As long as you call us every morning and every night,” she said.
    The twins didn’t go wild, but they did invite their best friends to the farm on Friday night. Davison’s swim team buddies, Brandon and Liam, brought beer, and Branigan’s softball cohorts, Sandy and Alissa, sweet white Zinfandel. After sunset, they plugged in a CD player on the back porch and let their friends introduce them to alcohol.
    Branigan quickly got giddy, then silly, then sick on the candy-colored wine. She was asleep by eleven, leaving the party in full swing. When their friends left around noon on Saturday, they couldn’t take the alcohol back to their houses, so they left it. Branigan could no more have touched another glass of wine than she could have eaten the dead mouse Gran’s shepherd proudly dumped on the porch. But Davison could hardly wait to get back to the beer.
    In mid-afternoon, he pulled one from the refrigerator, popped it with a satisfying spurt and licked the foam from the can. He then settled onto the porch and began talking excitedly about his plans for senior year, then college, then law school. Her normally reticent brother talked excitedly, non-stop. In fact, he pretty near babbled.
    She watched, puzzled, as he drank four beers in a row, then stretched out on Gran’s couch and fell asleep.
    Five years later, he mentioned that afternoon once. Just