“Eliza told me yesterday that the cat asked her to paint the hallway wall.”
Abilene covers her mouth to hide a smile. “Creative storytelling.”
“Destructive storytelling,” I correct. “But yeah.”
The wind blows stronger.
The first drop of rain lands on her shoulder.
She startles at it, glancing back at the clouds, worry ghosting over her features.
“Your bees will be okay,” I say gently, reading the fear on her face before she even speaks it. “Storms come through all the time.”
“I know,” she whispers, though I can tell she’s not convincing herself.
Another drop of rain.
Another flicker of instinct, of me wanting to step close, tuck a hand to the small of her back, and pull her inside where it’s safe.
But I don’t.
Because the last woman I pulled close ran the first chance she got.
Hayley wasn’t built for small-town life. Or ranch life. Or motherhood. She said she loved me, loved the babies, loved the idea of a family…
But she loved the idea more than the reality.
And I’ve spent six years making sure my kids never feel that absence. Making sure no one sees the cracks I keep patching with jokes and charm and “I’m fine.”
I swallow and look toward my house. The kids are on the porch now, arguing about whether frogs can survive tornadoes.
I turn back to Abilene. She looks caught between waiting for me to leave and wanting me to stay.
It’s a dangerous place for both of us.
“You should get inside,” I tell her again, this time softer.
She hesitates. “Will you, um, be okay getting them settled?”
“I’m always okay,” I say automatically.
Her expression softens. “You don’t always have to be.”
That sentence hits me straight in the sternum.
I don’t know how to respond, but she doesn’t seem to expect me to.
“Goodnight, Jesse,” she whispers.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“Goodnight, Honeybee.”
She bites her lip to hide a smile. “Honeybee?”
