“We just had snacks,” Jared points out.
“That was ages ago.”
“That was ten minutes ago.”
“Ages!” she insists.
We end up at the aquarium café, Emmy demolishing a sandwich while telling us a very complicated story about her friend at preschool who eats crayons but only purple ones.
Watching Jared listen to her rambling story with complete attention, asking follow-up questions about the crayon-eating habits of four-year-olds, something shifts in my chest.
While I spent my early twenties indulging hedonistic Felix in every way he wanted to be indulged, this man was raising his sister and then his niece. He works shifts that would break most people, seeing trauma and death regularly, then comes home and makes sure his family is okay. He bakes brownies for new neighbors and laughs at my bad jokes like I’m a top comedian.
“We should see the penguins,” Emmy announces once she’s finished her sandwich.
“We’ve already seen them,” Jared says.
“But they might be doing something different now.”
As we make our way back to the penguins, Emmy running ahead, I make a decision.
Jared needs some fun in his life.
And I think I’m the one who can give that to him.
Chapter 4
Operation Bring Some Fun into Jared’s Life begins the next day.
Sunday night isn’t exactly brimming with fun activity options, but I find a beginner’s pottery class at this little studio in Ponsonby that promises “therapeutic creativity” and “no experience necessary.”
Perfect for someone who needs to loosen up and get their hands dirty in a completely non-medical way.
I’m practically vibrating with anticipation when I see Jared returning home from his shift. I give him exactly three minutes to dump his bag before I’m knocking on his door with my best “I’m about to improve your life” smile.
Except when he opens the door, my smile falters.
He looks…deflated. Like someone let all the air out of him and he’s just going through the motions of being person-shaped. His shoulders are slumped, and there’s a tightness around his eyes that I haven’t seen before.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Rough shift?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a way that would be adorable if he didn’t look so exhausted. “Yeah. You could say that.”
I follow him into his apartment without invitation because, apparently, that’s what I do now.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, settling onto his couch.
He drops beside me, closer than necessary, but that’s definitely something I don’t mind. “Seventeen-year-old girl. Motorcycle versus truck.” He draws a shaky breath. “She was conscious the whole time. Kept asking if she was going to be okay.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That she was doing great. That she was so strong. That we were taking good care of her.” His voice cracks slightly. “When we made it to hospital, she was rushed straight into surgery, but I don’t think the outlook is good.”
My hand finds his before I even realize I’m moving. His fingers close around mine, and he grips them tight.
“She was the same age Sophie was when Mum died,” he says quietly. “Same dark hair, same… God, same everything. It just…”
“Hit different,” I finish.
