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She shakes her head. “We’re okay. Thank you for bringing him to me. I’m sorry he woke you up.”

“I don’t mind,” I assure her. “Sweet dreams.”

James must have left the door to Caitlin’s room open when he sleepwalked out, so I peer in to make sure she’s still out like a light, and close it softly, before crossing the hallway and climbing back into bed.

Falling asleep isn’t often difficult for me, but I toss and turn, something about Scarlett’s bedroom setting off alarm bells: if she likes the cold, why is she sleeping in a sweater? And why does she have at least a half dozen blankets on her bed?

I’m pretty sure I know, and I don’t like it. It’s another piece of the puzzle I’ve been slowly putting together since I arrived, and another nail in the coffin of salvaging any kind of relationship with my dad after this.

She mentioned struggling to afford Christmas presents, but this is bigger than that. This is the car that’s gone unfixed in her driveway for months, the empty fridge and bare cabinets. The worn cowboy boots, while the kids both have good snow boots. The fact that she sleeps in a freezing cold room, while the kids and I have heated bedrooms. Is that why Caitlin and James share a bedroom—so she has one less room to heat? Of course, I’m here now. And I know exactly how she’d react if I offered to give her money toward bills while I’m staying.

Somewhere along the way, something stopped Scarlett from accepting help. Maybe it was my dad, making grandiose promises and breaking every single one. Maybe she’s punishing herself for getting pregnant so young, for not giving Caitlin and James the life she thinks they deserve.

Whatever her reasons, I wish she saw herself the way I see her. The way the kids see her. She’s killing it, but she shouldn’t have to do it all alone. My dad should be paying child support, that’s a no-brainer. My family has never struggled for money, and he has more than enough in the bank to make sure Scarlett never worries about her bank account again. I can only assume he doesn’t pay because he doesn’t want my mom to find out. A payment here or there is easy to hide, but the same amount every month would be more obvious. I’m still not sure how he managed to keep the purchase of this house from my mom.

Scarlett is working her ass off and can’t even afford to heat her bedroom. My dad spends thousands of euros every month on “work trips”, fancy dinners, designer clothes, and other frivolous shit just because he can. How the hell does he live with himself?

When all of this comes out—because it’s not an if, but a when at this point—it’s going to be messy. But I have to wonder if, long-term, it’ll be good for Scarlett. With no more secrets to keep, my dad will have no choice but to support her and the kids. I’m going to make damn sure of it.

11

Scarlett

I wish I could say it was worrying about James’s sleepwalking incident that had me lying awake until the wee hours of the morning, my mind whirring. But it wasn’t. It was Killian.

Killian. Shirtless. Cradling my crying child to his (bare!) chest. Comforting said crying child as he passed him over to me. Making sure I was okay. Checking on Caitlin before going back to his own bed. All while bare. Fucking. Chested.

What exactly am I supposed to do now that I know what he looks like without a shirt on? Other than lose my mind, of course.

It’s been a long day. A group of tourists spent two hours making a mess in the diner before heading out on a hike, and I was run off my feet from the second Piper dropped me off on her way to work, until Killian picked me up at four. Because he refuses to let me walk when it’s so cold.

I need to dig through the freezer to try and find something for dinner, but I really don’t want to face the reality of freezer-burned French fries and leftover chili. I have to go grocery shopping this weekend, but that’s a whole other reality I don’t want to face.

Caitlin is upstairs, doing her homework. I’m not sure what Killian’s doing, and James is sitting on the floor with a coloring book and—

“Where did you find an apple?”

He looks up at me, his mouth sticky with apple juice, and a half-eaten Pink Lady clutched in his hand.

“Fruit bowl.”

Huh. I keep a bowl on the kitchen counter for the kids to grab a snack whenever they want something, so they don’t have to ask, but I know for a fact it’s been empty for at least a week.

My body hurts after a day on my feet, but I force myself to stand up and stretch. I head into the kitchen and stop in the doorway, frowning. The fruit bowl is full: bananas, mandarin oranges, and Pink Lady apples—the only kind James will eat. There’s a loaf of wheat bread from the local grocery store sitting in the breadbox on the counter, and the dish soap I’ve been mixing with water to stretch out for the past couple of weeks has been replaced with a full bottle.

I open the fridge, and stare open-mouthed. Killian didn’t just pick up a few essentials—he fully stocked this place. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the fridge so full.

He didn’t mention going grocery shopping, probably because he knew I’d protest. And I would have. I should’ve made grocery shopping more of a priority. What kind of mom must he think I am, not having food in the house? Shit.

Every cabinet I open is full of all of our favorite things, including the kids’ favorite snacks that I can never afford to buy, and my favorite energy drink, instead of the cheaper one I only get when I really need it. These are more than groceries. They’re us. They’re proof that Killian has been paying more attention than I realized since he got here. Dom has no idea what the kids’ favorite snacks are.

I head upstairs to look for Killian, to thank him for the groceries. I expect him to be in his room, working, but he’s sitting cross-legged on Caitlin’s bed.

“What about this one?” Killian asks, pointing at something on the paper Caitlin has on the lap tray she uses when she wants to do homework on the couch or in her bed.

She pokes her tongue out in concentration, tapping her pencil on the paper. “So … I would take away five first, right? Because that’s in brackets.”

“Exactly.”