Yeah. They’re both passed out on Liam’s couch, and I’m safe and snug in bed.
My face flames. Crap. I shouldn’t have mentioned the bed part. Right? Like, he’s going to think that’s weird or that I’m hitting on him.
I type a reply. Delete it. Type another. Delete it. Finally, I settle on something to say.
Also, thanks. For earlier. For stepping in.
Anytime. You shouldn’t have to deal with that alone.
I didn’t feel alone. Not with you there.
Ugh. I have immediate regret for sending that last one. God, he’s going to think I’m such a dork! He’s going to ask me to delete his phone number and never text him again. He’s…
Good. Because you aren’t alone.
I let out a soft, shaky sigh. Part of me—stupid, reckless, and still hopelessly hung up—wants this to bethemoment. The moment he admits he has feelings for me. That seeing Carl in my face flipped some switch in his chest he didn’t know existed.
Then another message comes in.
Sam would never forgive me if something happened to you, kiddo.
I stare at the screen.
For a second, I think I’ve gone numb. Or into shock. Because that? That’s the worst possible thing he could’ve said.
He invoked my brother. And he called mekiddo.
I’m nearly twenty-nine, but he’ll never see me like that. I get it now.
So I do the only thing I can.
I shut off my phone, roll over in bed, and cry into my pillow until sleep drags me under.
2
I wake up the next morning feeling like I’ve been emotionally steamrolled. And my day only gets worse from there.
Not only did I oversleep, but I barely manage to brush my hair before Charlie asks if I can hold Sam Jr while she grabs a quick shower. Of course I say yes. I’m not a monster. But five minutes in, the kid lets out a tiny burp and then projectile spits up all over my shirt. I blink at him, stunned. He blinks back, perfectly unbothered.
By the time I’m handing him back—still sticky, still smelling vaguely of sour milk—I slam my toe against one of Sam’s boots left near the doorway and let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a curse or a cry. Who knows. Everything hurts.
Charlie takes one look at me and her face softens.
“Phern, I’m so sorry. Sam Jr’s still having tummy issues.”
“It’s not your fault, Charlie.” I wave it off, even as I scrub at the wet spot on my shirt. “Heck, it’s not even baby Sam’s fault. It’s just one of those days.”
She hesitates. “Maybe you should go into town. Take a little time for yourself?”
Town. Right. Where Will is. With his flannel and his easy smirks and his deeply unromantickiddocomments.
I shake my head.
“I think I’ll head out to the barn,” I say. “There’s always something that needs mucking out.”
And if that includes my own feelings, all the better.
I stay out in the barn until my stomach starts to grumble and the sun has shifted low enough to make me feel like I’ve earned a break. I brush off the hay, wipe my hands on my jeans, and finally head back inside.
