My pillows are on the bed. The good ones.
His are in the closet because I won and he knows it and the argument about pillows has become a running joke that Wrenleigh references at least twice a week.
My scrubs hang in the closet next to his cut.
My toothbrush is in the holder next to his.
My name isn't on the mailbox yet because Coin keeps saying he'll do it and then forgets, and I keep not reminding himbecause the fact that he offered matters more than whether it's actually done.
This is my home. Not his home that I moved into.
Mine. Ours.
The distinction matters, and I feel it every morning when I come downstairs and Sadie Jo is already at the table and Wrenleigh is already complaining and Coin is already failing at eggs.
"Dad," Wrenleigh says, pulling a tray out of the oven. Golden brown, perfect edges, the whole kitchen filling with the smell. "Have you and Leah talked about the dog yet?"
Coin looks at me over his coffee. I look at him.
"We've talked about it," I say carefully.
"You've been talking about it for three weeks. Talking isn't deciding."
"We're still in the discussion phase."
"The discussion phase." Wrenleigh sets the tray down and crosses her arms—full Wrenleigh stance, hip cocked, eyebrow raised. "Dad. Sadie Jo has been looking at the Monongalia County shelter websiteevery dayafter school. She has a list. Anactuallist. With photos and names and personality descriptions."
"I'm aware of the list," Coin says.
"She's ranked them."
"I'm aware of the ranking."
"Number one is a three-year-old hound mix named Biscuit who was surrendered because his owner moved into a no-pets apartment, and he is—according to the shelter description— 'good with kids, house-trained, and loves belly rubs.' Dad. His name isBiscuit."
"I know his name."
"So, what's the holdup?"
Coin looks at me again. The almost-smile is there—the real one. "What do you think?"
"I think a dog named Biscuit would fit right in around here."
Wrenleigh's face does something I rarely see—it goes soft.
Not the hard-edged girl, not the angry teenager.
Just a sixteen-year-old who wants a dog for Christmas and just got one step closer. "Can we go this weekend? To meet him?"
"We'll see," Coin says, which is Dad code for yes, and Wrenleigh knows it, and the grin she gives him is the same grin she gave me the night of the four-wheeler accident—fierce, bright, full of something that might be joy.
"Sadie Jo!" she yells toward the living room. "We're getting Biscuit!"
"We didn't say—" Coin starts.
"WE'RE GETTING BISCUIT!"
The music in the living room stops. A beat of silence. Then Sadie Jo appears in the kitchen doorway with wide eyes and the beginning of a smile that makes my chest crack open in the best possible way.
