Chapter Nine #3
Derby’s voice roughens. “You ain’t stealing food. You ain’t taking charity out of a baby’s mouth. The women brought groceries because they wanted to. I cooked because I was hungry and the kid was sniffing cheese like a bloodhound. Eat the sandwich, Amelia.”
It sounds almost like an order.
Almost.
But there is something under it.
Not control.
Impatience with my guilt.
I pick up the sandwich again.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once and looks away like he can’t handle having been kind for that long.
August finishes his first triangle and points at the plate. “More.”
Derby slides him another. “You are small and yet bottomless.”
“I’m growing.”
“Into what? A horse?”
“A dinosaur.”
“That tracks.”
The snack becomes dinner because August eats more than I expect, and I eat because Derby stands there pretending not to watch until I do. Afterward, he washes the skillet badly. I rewash it when he turns his back. He catches me and looks offended.
“I cleaned that.”
“You threatened it with water.”
“It was cleaner than before.”
“That isn’t the same as clean.”
He mutters something about women invading and standards rising.
August yawns so wide his whole face disappears.
“Bed,” I say.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not tired.”
His eyes are half-closed.
Derby crouches in front of him. “Kid, you look like Blue Rex hit you with a brick.”
August hugs the dinosaur. “Blue Rex is nice.”
“Then the brick was deserved.”
That gets a sleepy giggle.
I stand and gather the plate, but Derby takes it from my hand.
“I got it.”
“You cooked. I can clean.”
“You re-cleaned. Counts.”
“Derby.”
“Go put him down before he face-plants in cheese.”
I want to argue.
I’m too tired.
“Thank you.”
He shrugs.
August reaches for my hand, and I take him down the hall to Derby’s bedroom.
The room already looks less like Derby’s.
More dinosaur sheets are on the bed, courtesy of Sophie or Brittany.
The moon night-light glows near the outlet.
August’s small bag sits beside the dresser.
Blue Rex’s coloring book is on the nightstand where Derby’s paperback used to be.
Derby’s house is changing around us.
So is Derby.
I don’t know which one scares me more.
I help August into pajamas. He insists Blue Rex needs to sleep under the blanket but with his head out so he can breathe. I brush his teeth with the new toothbrush. I tuck him in. He grabs my sleeve before I can move away.
“You’re staying?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Derby too?”
I pause.
“In the house,” I say carefully.
“On the couch?”
“Yes.”
“He’s big for the couch.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he can sleep on the floor.”
I smile. “I’ll suggest that.”
August’s eyes are heavy. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The question punches the breath out of me.
I sit frozen on the edge of the bed.
From the hallway, something creaks. Derby, probably.
Listening? No.
Maybe.
The house is small.
“He’s helping us,” I say.
August frowns, trying to make that fit into the categories he understands. “Like Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“But different.”
My heart beats hard.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Different.”
“Is daddy coming here?”
“No.”
“You promise?”
There are promises mothers make because they know they are true, and promises they make because a child needs to sleep.
I choose the second kind and pray the first catches up.
“I promise you are safe tonight.”
He studies me.
Then nods.
“Derby said there’s no monsters inside.”
My throat tightens. “Then I believe him.”
August snuggles down, Blue Rex under one arm. “Night, Mama.”
“Good night, baby.”
I stay until his breathing evens out. Then I stay longer because leaving him is hard, even to walk down the hall. When I finally slip out, I leave the door cracked and the hall light on.
Derby is in the living room, dragging a folded blanket onto the couch.
His cut is off now, draped over a chair.
Without it, he looks different. Still broad.
Still tattooed. Still dangerous. But less like a biker ready for war and more like a man standing in his own house after too many people have rearranged it.
He looks up when I enter.
“Kid down?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“He asked if you were sleeping on the couch.”
“I am.”
“He thinks you’re too big for it.”
“Smart kid.”
“He suggested the floor.”
“Ruthless kid.”
I laugh quietly and sit on the edge of the chair across from him, not the couch. The couch feels like too much. Too close to his blanket. Too close to the place where he will sleep. Too close to what almost happened in the alley.
He notices where I sit.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t comment.
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
The house sounds different at night. Refrigerator hum. Old pipes settling. Distant insects outside. A motorcycle passing somewhere far off on the road. August breathing through the cracked bedroom door if I listen hard enough.
It’s domestic.
That word should not belong here.
It does anyway.
Derby sits on the arm of the couch, forearms resting on his thighs. “We should talk about what comes next.”
I laugh once, not because it’s funny. “That sounds ominous.”
“Most things do when I say them.”
“True.”
His mouth curves briefly, then settles. “Fire Pit worked.”
“Did it?”
“People saw you. Heard you. Saw us. Ruthanne will report back before she takes her church shoes off.”
I rub my hands against my thighs. “She got to me.”
“I know.”
“I hated that.”
“I know that too.”
“She said exactly what I was already afraid of.”
“That I’m trying to own you.”
I nod, throat tight.
He looks toward the hallway, toward August. “I ain’t Jeremy.”
“No.”
“But you don’t know that in your bones yet.”
The words are too accurate.
I stare at him.
He shrugs like he did not just reach inside me and touch a bruise. “Takes time.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know?”
His expression closes a little.
Not all the way.
Just enough to remind me that Derby has doors too.
“I know,” he says.
That is all.
For now, I let it be enough.
I look down at my hands. “I keep thinking I should feel worse about the alley.”
He goes completely still.
My face heats immediately. “That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.”
I lift my eyes.
His are on me, dark and steady.
I wish he would make a joke.
I wish he would not.
“I mean,” I say carefully, “I feel guilty. I do. Jeremy is still my husband legally. August is in the middle of this. You and I are pretending. I had bourbon. I was upset. It was a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“But I don’t feel bad that I wanted to kiss you.” My voice drops. “I feel bad that I don’t feel bad enough.”
There.
The truth.
Ugly and warm and sitting between us like a lit match.
Derby exhales slowly.
“I’m the wrong man to ask about guilt,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because most of mine shows up late and poorly dressed.”
A tiny laugh escapes me.
He doesn’t smile.
“I don’t feel guilty for wanting you,” he says.
My heart jumps.
“But I would feel guilty if I took advantage of the mess you’re in.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Is wanting you part of the mess?”
“Probably.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
I look toward the hallway. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You said that last night.”
“I keep hoping it will stop being true.”
“It won’t by tomorrow.”
My mouth curves despite everything. “Comforting.”
“I’m a natural.”
He stands and walks to the kitchen. I tense automatically, not because he moves toward me, but because movement in quiet rooms still makes my body guess wrong.
He opens a cabinet, takes down two glasses, and fills them with water.
Then he brings one to me, stopping far enough away that I have to reach for it.
Always an inch of choice.
I take the glass. “Thank you.”
He sits again, this time on the couch itself, leaving the whole other cushion empty between him and the chair, as if he is drawing a map of distance for both of us.
“What comes next is boundaries,” he says.
I smile faintly. “Sophie would be proud.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“She probably already knows.”
“Unfortunately true.”
I sip water, then set the glass down. “Okay. Boundaries.”
“You and August have the bedroom. Door stays how you want it. Locked, cracked, open. I don’t come in without permission unless there’s danger.”
“Okay.”
“I’m on the couch. If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll sleep on the porch or in the garage.”
“No,” I say too fast.
His brows lift.
I blush. “I mean, the couch is fine.”
“Good.”
“If I need space, I’ll say so.”
“Good.”
“If I need help, I’ll try to say so.”
His expression shifts. “Try?”
“I’m not good at needing things out loud.”
“No kidding.”
I glare at him.
He shrugs. “You said it first.”
“I can’t promise I won’t apologize too much.”
“I can promise it’ll annoy me.”
That almost makes me smile.
“I can’t promise I won’t panic,” I say.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“I can’t promise I won’t be unfair to you because of him.”
His eyes hold mine. “I know.”
I hate that he keeps saying that.
I love that he does.
No.
Not love.
Appreciate.
A safer word.
A lying word.
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “My turn.”
I brace.
“I can be an asshole.”
“That isn’t news.”
His mouth twitches. “I can bark when I should talk. I can joke when I should shut up. I’m used to handling problems with fists, engines, or threats. Sometimes all three.”
“Also not news.”
“I’m not good at house stuff.”
I look around at the curtains, groceries, fort, night-light, and dinosaur sheets. “Your house is learning.”
“My house is under occupation.”
“That too.”
His face sobers. “I don’t know how to do a kid in my space.”
My chest tightens.
“You were good with him tonight.”
“Tonight was sandwiches and fort inspections.”
“That counts to him.”
Derby looks toward the hall. “Yeah. That’s what worries me.”
The honesty is quiet.
I understand it.
A child can attach to a man before the man decides whether he is safe to attach to. A child can see a biker fixing a fort and make him important. A child can ask if monsters are inside and believe the answer.