Chapter 9 #2
“Put her on,” he answers gruffly.
I hand the phone to Miss Honeydew. I’m honestly not even trying to get it right anymore, and she takes it with a dainty grip.
“Hi, Mr. Miller…yes…okay, no problem…sure, I can add her to the contact list.”
Wait, what?
My eyebrows shoot up. I’m an engineer on a temporary leave of absence, not a permanent nanny. But before I can object, her tone shifts. There’s an edge of concern that makes my stomach do an uneasy roll.
“Sure…it’s just, it’s the second time this month…yes…okay. Could you let your son know that Principal Taylor would like to see him tomorrow?”
She hands the phone back to me, her beaming smile replaced by a look of pity that I absolutely hate. Oh, shit. Daddy’s in trouble. Yikes, I need to remind myself never to mentally call him Daddy ever again. That’s a kink I absolutely do not need in my life right now.
I take the phone back, my mind racing. The second time this month? Wyatt really is drowning, isn’t he? Between the ranch, the broken equipment, and the grief, the world is starting to slip through his grease-stained fingers.
“Emily?” Owen is still on the line, sounding ten years older than he did this morning. “Take him home. I’ll call Wyatt on the radio. Just…get him some food, okay?”
“I’ve got it, Owen. Don’t worry.”
I hang up and look down at Alex. He’s kicking the toe of his boot against the floor, his excitement from earlier dampened by the mention of the Principal. He knows. He knows his dad is struggling, and he’s carrying the weight of it on his little ten-year-old shoulders.
“Alright, kiddo,” I say, keeping my voice bright as I grab his bag. “Let’s get out of here. Miss Honeycomb, thanks for…everything.”
“It’s Honeycutt,” she corrects gently, though she doesn’t look like she expects me to remember.
“Right. That.” I usher Alex toward the door. “Come on, Alex.”
He giggles as we push open the heavy school door, the daylight hitting us like a relief after the neon hallways and the judgment of Miss Honey-whatever.
As we walk down the path toward the sidewalk, he stops dead, his jaw practically hitting the concrete. “Noooo way! You brought the blue car?”
My nose scrunches with laughter at how cute he is. The pure, unfiltered awe on his face is enough to make me forget the awkwardness of the last ten minutes. “Of course I did. What else was I going to drive?”
“Ohh, this is sooo cool! Can I sit in the front?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” I shrug.
Honestly, I have no idea what the laws are for ten-year-olds in the front seat, but after the day he’s had, I want to see him smile.
I just need to get him home.
He practically launches himself into the passenger bucket seat, his eyes going wide with amazement as he glances at the LED-lit dashboard. My car is a tech-heavy contrast to everything else in this valley.
“Emily, this car looks like something from the future!” he breathes, reaching out to tentatively touch the glowing touchscreen.
I giggle in amusement, clicking my seatbelt into place. “Yeah, well, it’s a bit more high-tech than your dad’s big man truck.”
“Ugh, that thing stinks,” he groans, making a face. “It smells like old hay and diesel and…wet dog. And we don’t even have a dog!”
“I can imagine,” I say, and we both burst out laughing. The tension of the last few minutes dissipates. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you home.”
He smiles and settles back into the seat, looking like he’s won the lottery. He’s so dang cute right now that my heart actually warms with a strange, fluttering sensation I haven’t felt in a long time.
But as I pull out of the school lot, his smile fades a tiny bit. He starts picking at a loose thread on his jeans.
“Emily?”
“Yeah, Alex?”
“Does Dad know I’m with you? Is he gonna be mad that he forgot?”
I glance at him, seeing the flash of anxiety in his dark eyes, eyes that are so much like Wyatt’s, it’s startling. I realize then how worried he is about his dad.
“He’s not going to be mad at you, Alex,” I say softly, steering the car onto the main road. “And he’s not a bad dad for getting sidetracked. Sometimes, when grown-ups are trying really hard to take care of everything, some things can slip through the cracks.”
“He forgets a lot lately,” Alex whispers. “Since my mom…you know. It’s like his brain is too full.”
I look at him, briefly taking my eyes off the road, and feel a familiar twinge in my chest. A sudden wave of solidarity washes over me. I know exactly what it feels like to be a child watching a father spin every plate imaginable, waiting for the inevitable crash.
“Yeah, bud. I know. My dad was the same when I was a kid. But he’s trying his best.”
“You mean, your mom died too?”
God, his little face is breaking my heart right now.
I inhale deeply, an old ache flaring up. “Yeah, she did. The same day I was born.”
He looks down at his lap, and his little voice drops. “Oh…that’s really sad.”
“Yeah, bud, it is. But I had my daddy, and for a while, I had your grandpa, your grandma, and your whole family.” I can see the cogs turning in his mind, trying to imagine the lady in the blue car living in his home as a little one.
“Why did you leave?” he asks bluntly with that unfiltered curiosity only kids have.
“Oh, well, my daddy used to work for your Grandpa Owen. He was his friend, but my grandma lived in Oregon. Grandma got sick and had nobody to care for her, so my dad and I moved back to her house to look after her.”
“Oh, that’s kind. Was she nice?”
“She was lovely,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at my lips as I remember her.
She’d visited us in Montana every summer until the illness took hold.
I still remember the heartache of watching her fade, but I’ll be eternally thankful for the blueprint she gave my father.
She taught him how to be both parents at once.
“Do you remember your mom?”
Jesus, this kid is taking me on a whistle-stop guided tour of my own grief today.
“Not really. I was too tiny. But my dad kept pictures of her everywhere. He would tell me stories about her. He gave me things that belonged to her. That’s how we kept her alive.”
Alex looks down, his lips pursed together as if I’d touched a nerve.
“What’s wrong? Sorry, did I make you sad?”
“Kind of. Daddy doesn’t like to talk about mommy a lot. But I have a picture of her in my room, under my bed.”
Fuck. He really is breaking my heart. I know more than anyone how rough losing a parent is, and Wyatt knows it too. He lost his own mother not long after I left. Grief is stitched into the very bones of the Millers and the Callahans.
Part of me feels a sudden pang of annoyance toward Wyatt. It’s his job to keep Charlotte’s memory alive for this boy. Alex shouldn’t feel like he has to keep his mother in a shoebox under the bed. But as quickly as the anger comes, it’s tempered by a cold realization.