Chapter Four
Lorelie
I take the overnight oatmeal out of the refrigerator, sprinkle berries on top, and slide the bowl toward Milo.
He’s sitting on the table itself instead of the chair, legs crossed, curls sticking up in every direction.
I fight the motherly urge to fix his hair.
He’s going to kindergarten, not the office.
I smile as he takes an appreciative bite, then smooth my hand over his head anyway, taming a few wayward curls. His hair shines in the morning light.
We don’t have a formal dining room. Never saw the point.
But the kitchen is huge, with sunlight spilling through the back door every morning, so we put a small wooden table there. It only has three seats for now, though we’ll need to add another one soon.
Milo swings his legs, his feet nowhere near the floor. He insists on eating at the table like a “responsible adult,” which in his mind means less mess. In reality, it just means he uses fewer spoons to catapult berries.
He scoops a bite of oatmeal, then pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Mommy?” he asks softly.
I straighten a little. “Yeah, baby?”
His eyes stay on the oatmeal. “Where’s Daddy?”
I smile gently. “Daddy is sleeping.”
“Because he partied?” Milo asks, saying partied like a miniature rocker.
I blink, then laugh. “How do you even know that word?”
He shrugs. “Kourt says it whenever someone has a birthday.”
Of course. His little classmate with the teenage-sister vocabulary.
I kneel to Milo’s level. “Well, mister, you are way too young to partay.” I boop his nose, and he giggles.
A horn honks outside.
I sigh. “Okay, finish up. We’re running late.”
I grab his coat, bag, lunch and usher him toward the door.
We rush outside, cold air biting at our cheeks. Harvey is leaning against his car like every morning, arms crossed, sunglasses on, expression unimpressed.
“Every morning,” he drawls.
Milo’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, Uncle Havey.”
Harvey snorts. “It’s fine, sport. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
I hand over Milo’s bag. “Thank you. Seriously.”
Harvey nods, but then stops, clears his throat, and abruptly looks away.
Confused, I glance down…
My robe is hanging half open.
“Oh god,” I mutter, laughing as I tighten the belt. “Sorry. It’s just been one of those days.”
“Uh-huh,” Harvey says, not unkindly. “Get some rest, Lore.”
Milo climbs into the backseat, already swinging his legs. “Bye Mommy!”
“Bye, baby,” I say, leaning in to kiss Milo’s cheek.
Harvey studies me for a moment, head tilted just slightly. “Everything okay with Patrick?”
I look away, biting the inside of my cheek. I guess Patrick’s weird mood yesterday wasn’t as subtle as he thought. “It’s just a stupid argument,” I say quietly.
Harvey presses his lips together, clearly debating something. “You want me to talk to him? Go all big-brother on him?”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “No. We’ll be fine. We’re both off today, so… we’ll have time to talk it through.”
He nods, accepting that. “Good. Communication is key…”
“In a marriage,” we finish together.
I roll my eyes. “The Boise family motto for a successful marriage.”
“Hey,” Harvey says, hands up, “it works.”
He gives me one more searching look before sliding into the driver’s seat. Milo waves energetically from the back, his whole arm flapping like he’s trying to take flight.
I smile and wave back until the car disappears down the street. Then I turn toward the house.
I don’t know when Patrick got home last night. I just woke up and there he was. And judging by the gulf of mattress between us this morning, I’m guessing he’s still pissed.
I walk up the driveway slowly, my robe tied tight against the cold.
Is this really that big of a deal?
I expected Patrick to be upset, not… this.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee and stare at the steam curling up from the mug.
Should I take him some? On the rare mornings when we both have the day off, we get up together, send Milo off with Harvey, then spend the rest of the morning tangled in bed before picking him up and spending the day as a family.
Right now, I doubt he wants that.
Still… I should try.
Balancing two mugs, I push open the bedroom door with my hip.
Patrick is still in bed, the blinds drawn tight. The room is almost dark except for the thin line of light slipping in at the bottom of the curtains.
I set the mugs on his bedside table and cross to the window. With a quick tug, I pull the blinds open.
Sunlight instantly floods the room, warm and bright.
Patrick groans immediately, dragging the sheets over his head like a shield.
I sit on the edge of the bed, not touching him, just over the blanket, close but not too close.
“Patrick,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“I know finding out about…” I start.
He groans under the blanket, a low, frustrated sound that cuts me off.
I swallow and try again. “Patrick, it wasn’t pleasant to hear. I get that. But it was in the past.” My voice softens. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
I wait for a sign that he’s listening, that he cares but nothing comes.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “If you want to be upset, be upset. You’re entitled to that. But I can’t fix something you won’t even talk to me about.”
Still nothing.
I nod to myself, not that he can see and step back from the bed.
“I’ll be here,” I add, voice wavering. “When you’re ready to talk.”
Then I turn and walk out, leaving him to wallow in his silence.
Patrick
I tug the covers down when I start to feel suffocated. The air outside the blanket isn’t much better. My chest tightens, every breath coming out in shallow wheezes.
Lore just apologized to me.
She apologized.
To me.
If I didn’t already feel like gum on the bottom of her shoe, I sure as hell do now.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes burning from the lack of sleep. I must’ve gotten, what? an hour? Maybe two? The rest of the night I just lay here, replaying everything on a loop.
I almost cheated on my wife.
Jesus Christ.
My stomach twists. I roll onto my side and stare at her empty half of the bed.
Will she forgive me if she ever finds out?
I would’ve forgiven her. Eventually, I would’ve. I was angry. And angry people do stupid things.
Will she do something stupid now?
She screwed up. I screwed up. In some cosmic, messed-up sense, we’re even.
But I can’t tell her that. Even in my head, it sounds screwed up.
And she’s pregnant.
The stress won’t be good for the baby. The best thing I can do, the only thing, is shove this down somewhere deep and pretend it doesn’t exist. Move on, act normal, be the husband she expects, the father our kids need.
I rake a hand through my hair and let out a shaky breath.
It’s the worst possible time to have taken the day off.
Yesterday I was glad for it. I thought I’d celebrate my promotion the right way, then take my family out for dinner. Sleep in this morning. Make Lore coffee. Make Milo breakfast. Just… be normal.
Now I can’t even look at myself.
I can’t pick up a shift either. I don’t want my first official day as sergeant to be on no sleep and with a hangover. I already feel like shit; I don’t need to embarrass myself in front of the entire unit too.
So instead, I’m stuck here. I can’t stay home, Lore deserves better than me sulking around, lying by omission.
Harvey has work. Zoey probably has classes.
That’s what happens when parents decide to start over when their youngest is twelve, your sibling has class when your marriage is spiraling out of control.
I could always go by my parents’. Mom has work, but Dad’s usually home.
Dad won’t ask questions I don’t want to answer. He’ll just sit there with his coffee, grumble about the news, complain about “the new generation,” and offer me more food than I can eat.
I used to think my dad was this big, mean police officer and he was. Strict as the stick he used when we misbehaved. Unbending. A man who believed discipline was the first language and everything else came second.
But ever since he retired… we’ve gotten to see another side of him.
The side that offered to watch Milo the moment Lore went back to work. He cooks dinner for us to take home when he can. Lets Milo crawl all over him like a jungle gym without a single complaint.
It’s weird, seeing the same man who told me to lower my voice every time I talked to him turning into this patient, soft-hearted grandfather who lets Milo interrupt every sentence and never raises so much as an eyebrow.
It’s like retirement brought out a version of him none of us knew existed.
And right now… I need that version.
I don’t bother showering. I don’t shave. I just pull on clean clothes, run a hand through my hair, and get the hell out while Lore’s not in sight.
She must be in the backyard or the bathroom. I don’t stop to check. I don’t trust myself to look at her yet. So, I grab my keys off the counter, and head for the door.
I’m in my car and reversing out of the driveway before she can stop me.
The drive helps. A little. The road is quiet, and I keep the windows cracked, letting the cold air bite at my face.
Halfway there, I stop at a small bakery and grab donuts and coffee. Dad’s got high blood sugar, so I pick out the no-sugar-added fruit one he pretends to hate but always finishes.
It feels like the only normal thing I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours.
When I get to my parents’ place, I follow the hammering sounds around the side of the house and into the backyard. There’s Dad, knee on the grass, hammer in hand, knocking wooden planks together like he’s building a one-man ark.
I wait until he sits back on his heels before I speak.
“Dad.”
He jolts so hard the hammer nearly slips from his hand. “Jesus!” He glares. “You scared me.”
I laugh. “The door wasn’t latched. Not like she’s helping.”
I nod toward Mabel, their golden retriever, stretched out beside him sunbathing.
“Hey,” Dad says immediately, pointing a finger. “Don’t you talk that way about your elders.”
I wave him off and drop down beside the old girl, running a hand through her fur. She thumps her tail once but doesn’t lift her head. She’s slower now, more white than golden. It hits me harder than I expect.
I don’t say it out loud, Dad would throw the hammer at my head, but it might be time to start thinking about how we’ll explain heaven and death to Milo.
That’s the worst part of loving animals I guess: they leave long before you’re done loving them.
Dad lowers himself onto the other side of Mabel with a groan. I hand him the bakery bag and set the coffee beside his leg.
He opens the bag, sees the no-sugar donut, and immediately makes a face. Then he hands me mine like I’m the picky one.
I take a huge bite just to annoy him. “So,” I say around a mouthful of dough, “what’re you making?”
He wipes his hands on his jeans and squints at the wood in front of him. “I’m building Milo a castle.”
I nearly choke on my bite. “You’re making him a castle?” I squint at him. “I thought pretend play made children ‘live in fantasy worlds’ and ruined their development.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Well, new studies have shown that it’s good for development.”
“Uh-huh.”
He grunts. “It’s the job of parents to raise, and grandparents to spoil. Why do you think we let your grandmother feed you cake for dinner?”
I huff out a laugh. “You knew about that, huh?”
He nods once, still fiddling with the wood. “So, you gonna tell me what’s been up your ass since yesterday, or are we gonna continue talking about castles?”
My mouth opens, then closes again. The words stick in my throat, filled with regret.
“I… fucked up,” I finally get out. “Bad.”