Page 12

“Probably,” she admitted, “but it’s only because he’s scared for you. It’s okay, I’ll talk to him.”
Dylan perked up.
“Here,” she stood and tossed him the TV remote. “I haven’t eaten all day. Why don’t you find some cartoons and I’ll make us sandwiches? Can you eat peanut butter?” He nodded and Gen’s tail thumped the couch as Dylan snuggled in closer and turned the TV on.
Abby retreated to the kitchen. She figured Gen, who loved peanut butter, would be sharing. As long as Dylan wasn’t allergic, it was probably the best option. She debated making coffee but decided on a mug of chamomile tea instead. After all, once his father picked Dylan up, she still intended to go straight to bed; caffeine wouldn’t help.
Bringing the plate to the couch, she couldn’t help smiling when her prediction proved correct. Sure enough, for each bite of sandwich Dylan ate, he broke off an equal-sized portion and shared it with Gen.
“Don’t get used to it, girl,” Abby chided. “Tomorrow it’s back to kibble.”
Before long, the sleek silver Audi screeched to a stop across the street. Her heart leapt into her throat as she debated what she should say. Abby crossed the room and slipped out the door before Scott could knock.
He leapt the three steps and teetered to a stop before he barreled into her, one arm already moving to sweep her to the side. “Where is he?”
She gestured toward her bay window. Dylan, curled on her couch with his arms wrapped around a blissful Gen, giggled at the television. “He’s fine. He’s safe, Scott. I promise. Can we talk for a minute?”
Scott’s jaw clenched and his words ran over hers. “He’s fine? He ran away!” He tried to side-step her.
She moved with him.
“Yes, he’s fine,” she reiterated. “But he’sterrifiedof his doctor.”
“He’s what? Are you kidding me?” He scowled, eyebrows knitting together. “That’s ridiculous.”
“He’s scared they’ll cut his arm off.” She pursed her lips. “Your orthopedist isn’t Dr. Cunningham, by any chance, is it?”
Scott nodded.
“I thought so. Good doctor, but no bedside manner, especially with kids.” She had her own reasons for disliking Cunningham, reasons unrelated to Scott and Dylan, reasons that long since should have been laid to rest. Still, they persisted. The fact that Dylan had been a victim of his twisted sense of humor tugged a chord she couldn’t sever, no matter how many years had passed.
“Uh, okay.” Scott glanced at his son through the window. “He’s scared? Are you sure? It was a joke, and Dylan loves robots.”
“Kids don’t always take jokes the same way adults do.” She could have said more. Some jokes were hurtful no matter the audience. Sometimes they weren’t meant to be jokes, at all, just cruel prodding, the adult equivalent of knocking shoulders and name-calling. Abby forced herself to let go of her anger; it could do nothing to help her right now. “He’s also afraid you’ll be mad at him for running away.”
“Well, he’s not wrong.” Scott set both fists against his hips. “How did he get here, anyway?”
“Apparently, he found my number on the fridge and looked me up on the internet.”
Scott dropped his arms to his sides and let his fists unclench, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Of course he did.” He dropped his chin, glancing at her through his lashes, that dratted dimple quirking his cheek. “I planned to call again.”
Abby stepped out of the way and waved him inside. “Well, Dylan saved you the nickel.”
Scott’s bark of laughter as he entered her home caught Dylan’s attention, and he turned on the couch, clutching Gen closer, to face his dad.
Entering Abby’s home, Scott couldn’t help noticing the contradictions in her space. Clean, almost sterile, except for the dog toys spilling out of a basket near the kitchen and across the dark, wood-planked floor. Missing a dining table, two stools sat at the bar cordoning the kitchen off from the living space. An off-white wall with rectangles of brighter paint ran down one side of the room, as if pictures had once protected the color beneath while the sun faded the rest. Long bookcases marched down the other, filled with thick, heavy, leather-bound tomes with gold leaf edging. Until the last few shelves. Then, a riot of brightly colored paperbacks overran their allotted space, pictures of dogs on their covers. Training books, but why had she crammed so many in so tightly with all the available space among the other shelves?
His eyes slid to the soft, thick carpets beneath the comfortable, over-stuffed furniture facing the bay window and the street outside. At first, he thought the black couch a bit stark, then Gen’s tail thumped the cushion. The color matched her fur.
Much like Abby, the space perplexed him, similarly to when he’d met her for coffee. Her nervousness when he approached her and her confidence talking about Gen, her direct refusal of his offer for dinner but her easy banter... Who was she?
Would she give him the chance to find out?
He forced his mind away from the conundrums and focused on his son.
“Hey, Dylan.”