6. Avery
CHAPTER SIX
Avery
Lyla bounds down the stairs, dressed for the day, as I’m sliding the last of our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.
“Can you braid my hair like yours?” she asks, motioning toward the two Dutch braids I did in mine this morning before coming over.
“Sure. Go grab all the stuff from your bathroom, and I’ll do it down here,” I tell her. She turns around, darting back up the stairs.
I really didn’t know how all of this was going to go, but the past two weeks have gone surprisingly well. Lyla and I bonded right away. She’s the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, which I adore.
I was worried things would be awkward with Owen, but other than a few knowing looks exchanged here and there, things have been pretty friendly. I don’t really think that term is applicable, though, because I can vividly remember the feeling of his cock buried deep inside of me.
It’s working, though, so I’m not about to rock the boat.
There’s something different about Owen now compared to the version of him I met four years ago. Back then he was heartbroken by his sister’s diagnosis, but now there’s a blankness in his eyes that seems to always be there.
I can’t imagine what it’s like losing a sibling, let alone your twin. I fear a part of him left this world when Olivia did. I wish there was something I could do to help him find himself again, but I don’t know if that’s even possible.
Will and Miles probably know what went down between Owen and me, or at least some version of it, but they haven’t brought it up at all. For this, I’m extremely grateful.
Lyla skids to a stop in front of me with all her hair supplies piled in her arms. I laugh, taking some of it from her.
Setting everything down on the table, she sits backwards on one of the chairs. She knows the routine after doing this more days than not lately.
While I’m running the brush through her hair, she keeps her head down. Her eyes are trained on her hands, which she’s wringing together.
I can tell there’s something she wants to talk about, but she’s nervous to bring it up. Not wanting to push her, I start sectioning off her hair in silence.
I reach the halfway point with the first braid when Lyla finally speaks up. “Your mom died when you were a kid, too. Right?”
I take a deep breath, focusing my attention on her hair. “Yeah, she did.”
“That sucks,” she says before I can add anything else.
Chuckling, I say, “Yeah, it really does.”
I’ve never had anyone straight out say it like that before, but it’s pretty perfect. It does suck.
Her voice grows softer. “I really miss my mom.”
I grab a hair tie from the table, quickly tying off the end of the braid. I guide her by the shoulders until she’s turned around on the chair and faces me. I kneel in front of her, so we’re face to face, and take her hands in mine.
“You know what my dad used to tell me when I was growing up?”
She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.
“That it’s okay to miss people. It just means you were lucky enough to love someone that much,” I say, blinking away the wetness building in my own eyes.
She nods, thinking about what I said. “I was lucky to have her as my mom, even if it was only for five years.”
I squeeze her hands. “You really were. She sounds awesome.”
It’s obvious her uncles have kept her mom’s presence alive in Lyla’s life because she mentions things about her all the time. She seems like a wonderful person who didn’t deserve to be ripped away from all these people who loved her dearly.
“You’re lucky to have your uncles, too,” I say.
Will explained to me that Lyla’s dad was never in the picture, and Olivia wanted it to stay that way. It was her wish for her little girl to be raised by her three brothers. All of them. Together.
Lyla gets a smirk on her face. “They’re okay, I guess.”
“You love them, and you know it,” I say with a wink.
She rolls her eyes, spinning back around in the chair. “They drive me nuts sometimes, but I do love them.”
We settle into chatter about what she wants to do for the rest of the day while I finish her other braid. When we get everything put back away in her bathroom upstairs, she stops in the doorway.
“Thanks for listening about my mom,” she says quietly.
My heart feels like it’s going to constrict in on itself. I swallow, trying to find words to respond with. “Of course. I’m always here if you need to talk about anything.”
The depth of emotion in her eyes is more than any eight-year-old should possess. She gives me a small smile before walking back downstairs, leaving me reeling in the mess of my own emotions.