He shook his head, slow and sure. “Love’s not just the saying-it part. It’s what you do after the screwup. When it’s hard. When it’s inconvenient. When it costs you something. That’s where it lives.” He took a sip of his coffee. “At least ... that’s my best guess, anyway.”
I stared down at the coffee cup, the heat long gone from the ceramic. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You don’t,” he said simply. “Not all at once.”
I eyeballed him. “So then what?”
Brody stood, his boots scuffing the wood. He looked at me like he saw right through the mess I was, straight into whatever pieces were still salvageable underneath. “You start by doing what Dad didn’t. You start showing up, and then you keep showing up. Prove that you meant it when you told her you loved her ... even if you did yell it in her face.”
He turned and walked back inside, letting the screen door ease shut behind him.
I sat there for a long time, the quiet heavier than before—but different. Less suffocating. Like silence that waits for something new to begin.
I looked down at my phone, at the empty screen, at the string of unanswered texts I hadn’t sent yet.
Then I stood up.
Time to prove I was a man of my word.
THIRTY-SIX
SELENE
The house was still again.
Not quiet—still, more like it was waiting to see what I would do.
I stood at the edge of the kitchen, my fingers curled around the handle of my coffee mug, half full and long since gone cold. I hadn’t sipped it in twenty minutes. The ceramic was lukewarm now, and my other hand kept drifting to the knot forming at the back of my neck.
I’d been up since six. I made Winnie breakfast and brushed her hair into pigtails that went crooked the second she put on her jacket. I packed her backpack, double-checked her folder, zipped up her coat, and tied her shoes.
All the things Austin usually helped with.
All the things I could do on my own. Things Ihaddone on my own, for years.
I told myself I needed the time off work. That staying home these last few mornings and afternoons was good for Winnie. That I liked being the one to pick her up from school and make dinner without glancing at the clock. That it had nothing to do with needing space to clear my own head.
The truth clung to my lungs like smoke.
I hated how respectful he was being. How he’d backed off completely. I hated that I hadn’t heard his key in the lock. That there hadn’t been a quiet knock or a note left on the counter or one of his sweatshirts slung over the arm of the couch like it still belonged there.
It would’ve been easier if he’d pushed. If he’d knocked and begged and made me feel justified in keeping him at arm’s length before collapsing in his arms and begging for a chance to love him again.
Instead, Austin was giving me space, and somehow that hurt more.
My phone buzzed against the counter, and I smiled when I saw the photo.
Winnie, sitting at her desk, cheeks dusted with powdered sugar, grinning so wide I could count all her baby teeth. Her hands were covered in orange frosting, and a half-eaten Halloween doughnut sat on a paper napkin in front of her.
Below the photo, the message from her teacher read:
Big thank you to Mr. Calloway for the surprise treats! He brought enough for the whole class. We loved the spooky spider doughnuts! He also gave Winnie the sweetest note. Thought you might want to see.
A second image loaded. A folded piece of notebook paper in Winnie’s tiny fingers. Scrawled in Austin’s all-caps handwriting:
Hey bug,
I hope the spider doughnuts were spooky enough. So proud of you. Always.
