Too much… me in the middle of it all, flailing. I’m not built for this.
I lift my head again, blinking hard.
“Okay,” I say. “Focus. Bees. Market. Order for Maeve. Letters later.”
I say it like I have control. Like my heart isn’t still a mess on my porch.
I gather a stack of labels and begin sticking them onto jars with aggressive precision.
Golden Meadow.
Morning Sun.
Wildfire Bloom.
My hands keep moving because if they stop, my brain will go right back to Wyatt’s eyes and that quiet disappointment he tried to hide.
I line up the jars. I check the lids. I stack candles into a box with tissue paper.
I’m busy.
I’m productive.
I’m fine.
And that’s how I think it should stay.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jesse
Tuesday
There are certain things you learn as a single dad.
How silence is never peaceful—it’s suspicious. And how if you hear the words “Daddy, watch this,” you should immediately locate an ice pack.
I’ve also learned that Wyatt Tucker walking into my kitchen without making eye contact is basically a five-alarm fire.
Because Wyatt is not a man who does “casual entrance.”
Wyatt is a man who does polite head nods. Soft “mornings.” A quiet little smile that says, “I noticed your kids have turned the couch cushions into a bear den, and I’m choosing not to judge you for it.”
So when he comes in and doesn’t even say hello to Eliza and Caleb, who are currently on the living room floor conducting a very serious amphibian conference about whether frogs can get trauma from storms… I know.
Something’s wrong.
Caleb has built a “frog hospital” out of coasters. Eliza has appointed herself the frog therapist. Their stuffed animal frog is in a blanket burrito, apparently “processing his feelings.”
Wyatt walks right past it.
No comment.
No “how’s the patient?”
No gentle chuckle.
Just boots on wood, keys tossed too hard on the counter, shoulders stiff, carrying a heavy and sharp weight, and refusing to drop it.
