Rolling my suitcases into the bedroom, I take my time changing out of the clothes I wore on the plane and put on my favorite pair of jean shorts and a short-sleeved blouse, then throw my hair up into a messy bun.
After dumping a load of laundry in the wash, I make a beeline straight for the coffee maker in the kitchen. I wasn’t expecting jet lag to hit me so hard, so soon.
Popping a pod into the Keurig, I add water to the reservoir and set it going just as the French doors from the back veranda burst open with a thud.
Chris storms in first, followed by an indignant-looking Charlotte.
“You need to apologize.”
“No, I don’t.”
She pushes on his back, and he stumbles forward. “Yes, you do.”
Lovely. I’m not home five minutes, and they’re already going at each other.
“What’s going on?”
Not missing a beat, Charlotte aims an accusatory finger at her brother. “Chris was being rude to Fallon.”
“I was not! You’re just a suck-up,” Christopher fires back.
Lord, give me strength. I’d blame Ryder for our children’s pigheadedness, but I know full well they get it from me.
I abandon my much-coveted coffee, refusing to let the unfolding sibling drama spiral any further.
Leaning a hip against the counter, I give my son the “mom” look. “What exactly did you say to Fallon?”
Christopher gears up to argue his case but snaps his mouth shut. Suddenly, both my children turn mute, neither answering, not even Charlotte, who is usually the first to rat out Christopher and get him into trouble.
Gathering him into a hug because I’ve missed him, I tell him, “You’re cooking dinner tonight. Fallon is eating with us.”
“What?” Christopher’s eyes widen in disbelief. “But?—”
“No buts.” I kiss his forehead and pat his cheek. “And you’re on kitchen clean-up duty afterward, too. In fact, you get to do it for the entire week.”
Charlotte is unable to hide her glee.
“And you can help him.”
Her jaw drops. “Why? I didn’t do anything!”
“You pushed him.”
Christopher groans loudly, dragging a hand through his mop of dark hair. Charlotte huffs and mutters something about “how this is so unfair.”
Taking my mug of coffee with me, I go in search of Marcus and Fallon in the garage.
Ryder’s black Hellcat now lives at Randy’s Custom Auto in town. It became too painful for me to see it every day, so Marcus took it to the shop. My red Hellcat is parked in the bay to the right. The last time I drove it was with Ryder. He had become so frail and weak during that final month. The boys would help me carry him to the car, and I would take us for long drives through the back roads.
My footsteps slow as I get closer. For a few seconds, everything goes blurry, and a wave of dizziness hits me. I swear the other man next to Fallon, hunched over the hood of the car, is Ryder.
When I realize it’s Marcus, the anguish that engulfs me at that moment of clarity is crippling. This isn’t the first time I’ve mistaken him for Ryder. My confusion was the worst right after Ryder died, and it got to the point where I couldn’t be in the same room with Marcus without breaking down and losing my shit. I have so much to make up for with my children. They lost their father, but at the same time, they lost their mom, too. I became a shell of myself. Sad. Depressed. Broken.
Marcus and Fallon are focused on their work, so they don’t notice me walking up. Not wanting to interrupt them, I lean ashoulder against the jamb and quietly observe while I sip my coffee.
“Your dad used to test drive all my cars,” Fallon says. “I loved watching him race. That’s how I first met him. I saw him on his dirt bike and thought he was the coolest badass I had ever seen.”
Marcus chuckles, his voice deep and baritone like his father’s. “Dad would tell us some crazy stories about the two of you,” he says, handing Fallon an Allen wrench.
