“Yeah. Has been for a while.” His jaw tightens. “Guess it’s not working.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “It could be helping more than you realize. It could always be worse.”
“I don’t care,” he snaps quietly. “It already feels too bad. I can’t—I can’t deal with it.”
His eyes go glassy for half a second before he blinks it away.
“What can we do?” I ask.
He thinks for a beat. “Maybe she needs more breaks. More help.”
He pauses before continuing, “I can only do so much. And the kids—sometimes all they want is her…and it just makes it worse.”
“I can talk to Megan,” I say. “See if she’d be willing to come over tomorrow. Give Karissa some space.”
He nods. “Yeah. Maybe. Talk to Megan first.”
“I will.”
We move the guns from his truck into the garage. I’ll organize them later, but for now, locked and out of reach is enough.
He leaves not long after.
When I head back inside, Megan’s standing at the top of the stairs. She comes down slowly, watching my face, waiting to hear what that was about.
Chapter 19
Megan
The windows are open and the air that drifts through is warm but easy—late-summer kind of air that smells like sunshine and fresh-cut grass.
I’m on the back porch, a glass of sweet tea sweating beside me and a stack of spelling tests in front of me that could easily take up the rest of my afternoon. I’m trying to grade and log them in at the same time, but every so often I lose focus.
Mason’s out in the yard, his shirt sticking to his back, splitting wood. He said with how cold I get, he’s afraid we’ll burn twice as much as he usually did when it was just him. He’s been at it for over an hour now, steady as ever. The sound of the axe hitting the logs is a rhythm I’ve grown used to.
The man makes chopping wood look like a sport.
Actually, the only sport I’ve ever had genuine interest in watching.
A few minutes ago he caught me staring, wiped his forehead, and called out, “Enjoying the view, sweetheart?”
I just shook my head at him and took a long sip of tea like I wasn’tabsolutelyenjoying it.
Now, he comes up the porch steps—sweat beading at his hairline, face red, neck sunburned, breathing a little heavier. He questions my grin.
I laugh. “Nothing. I’m just…definitely ovulating.”
His eyebrows lift, that slow, knowing grin spreading as he leans against the porch post. “Oh yeah? How you know?”
“Because I wouldn’t even care if you didn’t shower first.”
He laughs. “That right?”
He drags a chair closer, sitting right in front of me, knees brushing mine. He’s still catching his breath, but he’s got that mischievous look—the one that makes my stomach flip.
“Tell me you’re serious,” he says, leaning in, his voice low, “and we can make it happen.”
Then the wind shifts.
