27. Chapter 27 #3
I laugh. “Skye, you wore that thing for like three months straight. And it smelled like ketchup.”
“It did not.”
“It totally did.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, maybe it did toward the end.”
I chuckle. “What made you stop wearing it?”
“Your dad,” she says, nonchalantly shoving three French fries into her mouth at once.
“What?”
“Yeah, remember, he read us the real Cinderella story one time when I was sleeping over? The Brothers Grimm version?”
I nod.
“That was terrifying,” she says with a giggle. “All I could think about after was severed toes.”
That makes me laugh. “I don’t think he meant to ruin the fairy tale for you.”
The mention of him is enough to crack something open inside me.
Memories surface before I can stop them.
My dad sprawled across the living room floor doing ridiculous character voices.
His hand steadying the back of my bike seat while I pedaled furiously down our street.
The random Wednesday he pulled me out of school so we could spend the entire day fishing and eating junk food because, according to him, mental health days weren’t just for adults.
“I know he didn’t,” I hear Skye say quietly. “Do you miss him?” she asks softly, but it still feels like getting the wind knocked out of me. I stare at the TV where the yacht crew is scrambling to put together a casino-themed birthday party.
Finally, I nod. “Every day. Every hour. Every minute.” What I wouldn’t give to have him back.
I don’t look at her, afraid of what it would do to me if she caught my eye now. “He always told me to look out for you, to be respectful and kind to you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice neutral. “And to let you win at street hockey,” I add. “Even though you sucked. Bad.”
She sputters a genuine laugh, and I finally risk looking at her.
Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright.
Seeing her smile like that feels a lot like stepping into sunlight after spending too long in the dark.
“He’d have loved seeing you now,” I say, because I know it’s true.
Her face sobers a little, but the warmth in her eyes remains. “Oh, Boss, he’d be so incredibly proud of the man you are.”
I feel my face fall. “Yeah?” I chuckle, but it’s bitter. “You think he’d be proud of a twenty-year-old son who never graduated high school and lives in his car?”
She gives me a sad smile. “He’d be proud of his twenty-year-old son who, despite surviving horrible things, continues to show up and do what he must to keep his family together.”
I look away because for one dangerous second, I want to believe her.
We don’t say much after that. Maybe because we wandered into territory that feels too heavy to move away from so casually. We finish our food, clean up, then settle on the sofa again.
On TV, the yacht crew is busy catering to a new group of vacationers who may or may not be swingers judging by the way the couples—or what I initially thought were couples—are switching partners and bedrooms like musical chairs. I admit, I have no idea what’s going on.
“Do you actually watch this regularly?” I ask.
She huffs. “No.”
I look at her, eyebrows raised.
“Okay, yes.”
I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
She giggles. The sound makes my entire nervous system light up. “I told you, it helps me shut off my mind.”
“I can see why. None of it makes sense. Twenty grand a day to stay on a boat?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t actually watch the show for the guests, but for the crew?
” she asks, still smiling. “I kind of love the idea of taking a summer job working on a yacht docked in the South of France or off the Greek Isles. Even the idea of sleeping in those tiny cabins feels cozy.”
She gestures vaguely toward the flickering screen mounted to the wall. “Travel. Adventure. Meeting people. Getting paid to see the world.”
I stare at her. The light smattering of freckles high on her cheeks. The stray piece of auburn hair caught against her eyelashes.
Without thinking, I reach over and brush it away. Her eyes flutter shut.
“You’re something else, you know that?” I say, my voice lower than before.
A faint pink blooms across her cheeks. “That’s either a compliment or an insult.”
“Depends on the day.”
She nudges my shoulder with hers.
I grin. “Seriously, though. Most people probably watch this show and think, wow, I’d love to be rich enough to rent that yacht.”
“And?”
“And somehow you watch it and think, wow, I’d love to be the employee.”
She gives me a bright smile that I return without hesitation.
The conversation drifts then. Little things. Nothing things.
We talk about people from high school. Teachers we hated. That one Fourth of July when Jake accidentally lit a trash can on fire trying to launch fireworks. The fact that Jonathan somehow still can’t parallel park.
At some point, Skye kicks her feet up on the couch, conjures a blanket from somewhere, and wraps herself in it like she’s preparing for one of Stillwater’s legendary blizzards.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“No,” she says but immediately pulls the blanket tighter around herself.
I snort. “Liar.”
“It’s aesthetic.”
“That’s not what aesthetic means.”
“It absolutely is.”
“Pretty sure it isn’t.”
She ignores me completely.
A few minutes later, she shifts closer—so close that her shoulder brushes mine. Before I can prepare myself, she rests her head against me.
“Thank you for being here, Boss.” Her voice is quiet, but undeniably content.
My throat, on the other hand, feels suspiciously tight. “Cancelled my very exciting evening plans just for you.”
She only chortles softly.
Outside, a wind chime tink-tinks lazily in the warm summer breeze.
The television drones on.
The room grows quieter.
Skye’s responses become less frequent. Then shorter. Then they stop altogether.
I glance at her. Her eyes are closed.
“Stormy?”
Nothing.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Five minutes later, her breathing has evened out, and one hand is tucked between her cheek and my shoulder, the blanket pulled all the way to her chin.
She looks… safe.
I let my eyes sweep the enormous house, at the locked doors and glowing lamps and expensive furniture.
Then down at the girl sleeping against my shoulder. And it hits me again, harder than before. She came looking for me tonight. Because for some reason, she thought I could do for her what no one else would or could: make her feel safe.
The realization settles heavily in my chest.
And for the first time in a really long time, I feel something dangerously close to safe too.