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Scarlett

My kids don’t meet new people often. Even at the height of summer, when tourists come from all over the world to experience the beauty of our province, people aren’t exactly flocking to Clover Pines. Caitlin and James have grown up with the same faces, and I take a lot of comfort in the fact that they know pretty much everyone in town. The downside is never knowing how they’re going to handle meeting someone for the first time, but I needn’t have worried.

From the second I brought them back from Piper’s to meet Killian yesterday, they’ve taken him in their stride. Even James, as quiet as he usually is, is acting like he’s known Killian forever. And Killian seems happy about it. I don’t know if he has experience with kids, but he’s great with them. The kids have been all over him all day, and he hasn’t faltered once.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s some mysterious biological connection that just made them click. And I’m happy about it, even if it worries me how quickly my kids are getting attached to someone I know is leaving.

Weekends in our house are always high-energy, especially three-day weekends like this one. Every Sunday, we go to my parents’ house and the kids burn off a ton of energy chasing Landon around the farm, but I think he might get a reprieve tomorrow, with Killian here. Today, they’ve played games, watched movies, and introduced him to every single one of their stuffed animals. Caitlin has asked him a million of the most random questions I’ve ever heard, and Killian has answered every one:

“Do you have bears in Ireland?” No.

“Have you been to the Grand Canyon? That’s in Nevada.” Yes.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” No.

“A boyfriend?” Also no.

“What’s your favorite color?” Red.

“Like blood?!” No—like strawberries.

And on, and on, all day.

I know Killian a whole lot more than I did this morning, and I didn’t have to ask him anything beyond, “Do you like ketchup or ranch with your grilled cheese?” Neither. He likes mustard.

Now, it’s bedtime, and the kids show no sign of wanting to go to sleep. Somehow, the four of us managed to squeeze onto Caitlin’s bed for story time. The kids requested their favorite book, and Killian killed the voices. Of course, the reason they love that book is because there’s a little pack of cards stuck to the back with pictures of the animals to play snap. We’re on our fifth round.

“One more? Pleeease,” Caitlin asks, for the third time, and I know they’d happily go all night if I let them. But none of us would like how grumpy they’d be tomorrow.

“You two can play for ten more minutes,” I say, standing up and pointing to the horse clock on Caitlin’s nightstand for James’s benefit. “Until the little hand is there. Then Killian and I will come and tuck you in.”

They agree, and Killian follows me from their room.

“I’m sorry for making bedtime more difficult for you,” he says as we drop onto the couch in the living room.

I wave him away. “Don’t worry about it. They’re just excited. They like having you around.”

His green eyes light up, brighter than the flickering wall sconce. “I like being here.” He smiles, his lips lifting with a gentleness that I would never have expected when he showed up on my doorstep, his face like thunder. He’s handling everything so well.

Personally, I feel like a duck, paddling furiously beneath the water, trying to look calm and collected while I fight to stay above water. If Killian is as stressed about everything as I am, he’s doing a remarkable job of hiding it. He seems perfectly content here.

My phone buzzes on the table, lighting up with a picture of Dom and Caitlin from her first birthday. Back when I was still happily in denial, before I saw through the fantasy of a happy family.

I sigh, grabbing my phone and rejecting the video call. Just like that, my tension headache is back. Anxiety when he calls isn’t new—the kids are never happy about it—but it’s worse now that I know what I know.

“You haven’t seen a difficult bedtime yet, but you’re about to,” I warn Killian, typing out a quick text to Dom.

Getting the kids ready for bed. 5–10 mins.

His answering thumbs up annoys me more than usual.

“Does he always call this late?” Killian asks.

“Usually. Sometimes later, when they’re asleep.” And always with no warning. “He says he’s an early riser and likes to start his day talking to his favorite people,” I tell Killian, and shadows cloud his eyes. I’ve never done that math, but it’s 4 a.m. in Ireland. He probably calls at this time because no one else is awake and he won’t be overheard—when he’s home, that is.

Killian watches me figure it out in real time, his expression softening.

“I’m going to go shovel the snow out front.”