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He knew men who parented with discipline and rigor, especially boys. Dylan had never needed that kind of parenting before, but maybe he needed to adjust. Then again, if Abby had read the situation correctly, if Dylan’s misbehavior had come from fear, it wouldn’t help to yell.
“Hey... Dad...” His son’s voice caught, the wavering tone betraying his nerves.
Scott couldn’t even pretend to still be angry. Shame and guilt wrestled within him, along with a sense of failure, as he circled the couch and sat beside the boy.
As he did, he kept an eye on Gen, gauging Dylan’s emotions through the dog. Though her ears followed his movements, she didn’t tense or show distress. “So, I hear you’re not a fan of Dr. Cunningham.”
Dylan shook his head, then whispered, “I don’t want to lose my arm, even if I do get to be a robot.”
“You know the doctor was joking, right? He’s not going to cut off anything.” Scott frowned. “I’d never let anyone do that to you, Dylan. I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
Dylan’s eyes dropped away, his fingers winding and unwinding in the fur of Gen’s ruff.
“You know that, right?”
Dylan kept his face down and his shoulders twitched, not a shrug, but close enough.
Wounded, Scott wondered what he’d done to earn his son’s lack of faith. However it had happened, it ended here. “Okay, we’ll find a different doctor.”
Dylan’s head jerked up, his eyes searching his father’s face. Apparently seeing what he needed to, he blew out a sigh of relief.
Gen turned to check in with Abby, then laid her head back on Dylan’s knee as Scott rested his hand on his son’s shoulder for a moment and squeezed.
Reaching for the forgotten peanut butter sandwich, he asked, “Can I have a bite?”
Dylan glanced sideways at Gen before Abby came up behind the couch. “Why don’t I make you one of your own? I don’t guarantee Gen hasn’t snuck a lick or two.”
“That’d be great, thanks.” He stayed a moment more beside his son, trying to make sense of the cartoon, then gave up and followed Abby to the kitchen.
He settled on the empty stool at the bar. More books filled a second one, the heavy, leather-bound kind, not the dog training kind. A layer of dust coated their covers, the only sign of a mess in the place besides Gen’s toys strewn across the floor.
“You keep things very... neat,” he commented as she opened and closed cabinets, revealing perfectly aligned stacks of dishes and boxes of food.
Abby shrugged. “Former EMT, you know. Everything has to be cleaned before it’s put away, always in the same place, and always organized. Imagine the mess if the team on the shift before yours skimped. It kind of carried over.”
Scott chuckled. “Yeah, I imagine it would.” He glanced back at Dylan. “My life is a lot less organized since having a kid, but the nanny does a pretty good job keeping things running. Except when my son takes it into his head to run away.” He frowned, but Abby’s face cleared, and she laughed.
“Yes, I suppose that does make for a disorganized afternoon.” She slid a plate across the bar to him, but stayed standing on the kitchen side, picking at her own half-eaten sandwich. “Here,” she scribbled for a moment on a pad of paper. “Try Dr. Hastings. He’s a good friend of mine, and great with kids.”
Scott accepted the torn-off page and slid it into his pocket, then, swallowing his bite of sandwich, prompted, “So, you never did tell me why you quit being an EMT?”
Abby’s face crumpled and she twisted away.
He half-stood, then hesitated, waiting until her ragged breathing steadied again. She turned back, tugged a tissue out of the box on the counter, then cleared her throat. “Sorry, it’s been a long couple of days.”
Scott waited.
“One accident too many, I guess, and I... I couldn’t go back.”
Abby seemed under control again, but for the first time since arriving Scott took a moment to focus on her, rather than his son, or Gen, or her home, or how he should act, or what he should say. Dark smudges under her eyes testified to at least one sleepless night, and her shoulders—her whole body—slumped with exhaustion. Now that the situation with Dylan had been handled, whatever had been going on at work had caught up with her.
“Oh, Abby, you look awful,” he blurted out, then cringed. In his experience, women didn’t like being told that kind of thing.
She attempted a smile, but it came out more as a grimace. At least she wasn’t insulted. “Like I said, long couple of days.”
They finished eating in uncomfortable silence and he followed her lead when he’d swallowed his last bite, putting his empty plate into the dishwasher.
He glanced up to find her studying him and laughed it off. “Yeah, I know how to use a dishwasher... and I fold laundry.”