“If you don’t trust me with her, you shouldn’t have added me to her contacts list,” Megan says, her words sharp.
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then explain it to me because I’m confused.”
I groan, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck and squeezing.
It’s not that I don’t trust her with Kennedy. It’s not that at all. Actually, aside from my mother, I trust Megan with her more than anyone else.
The problem is that I feel removed from what’s going on with Kennedy.
But I don’t want to fight about it. I have bigger fish to fry.
“So does this have any effect on her schoolwork?” I ask, forcing myself to mentally move on for now. “Does she get to make up whatever they do in the three days she’s gone?”
“I don’t know.”
Breathe.
“Are you mad at me, Chase? Because I get the feeling you are.”
I turn around and face her.
A genuine concern glimmers in her eye, and my heart softens as I take her in. She took care of my kid today in a situation thatwas probably frustrating as hell.Am I mad at her? No. I’m just mad at the situation. At myself. At Mrs. Falcon-fucking-bury.
At everything.
“No, I’m not mad at you,” I say honestly. “I’ve just hit the limit on the fucks I can give today.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t have the energy to coddle you right now.”
Her jaw drops. “I haven’t asked you to do a damn thing for me.”
Dammit. Don’t take it out on her. “Megan, I’m sorry.”
I start to tell her that I’m sorry for being a dick. Then I consider that I should probably apologize for her having to deal with Kennedy getting suspended. That’s followed by the horrible laundry in my bag that will need to be washed, the fallout from this suspension, whatever comes next with that—the fact that I want to grab a shower and fall asleep for three days.
“Your mom is coming home tomorrow,” she says. “Do you know that?”
I still.Shit. I forgot.“Yeah. She told me.” I finish my beer and toss the can in the trash.
“So …” she says.
“So what?”
“So what does this mean? What do you want me to do?” She holds her hands out to her sides. “You said we’d talk about things when you got home.”
“Now’s not the time.”
I stand across the kitchen from Megan and see reality clearly for the first time.
She’s waiting on me to answer. For direction. For my attention. And I don’t have any answers or directions, and my well of attention has officially run dry.
And that’s what does it. That’s the kicker—the one thing I can’t overcome.
If I ask her to stay with us, I’m relegating her tothis. It’s a life of chaos and turmoil, of teenage drama. Me being gone. When I come home, being too tired and annoyed to be a good partner.
