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“Brody will take good care of her. He’ll keep her safe,” I assure her.

“I know.”

“I’m glad you two talked. You’re usually so quiet.”

My heart stops when she lays her head against my thigh and sighs. “It’s easier to talk when you find people who listen.”

Rain starts to patter against the windows as I press my fingers into the soft spot behind her ear, continuing to massage away years of stress and anxiety.

“When I was in eighth grade, I quit talking for two whole months,” she confesses.

“To your parents?”

“To everyone.”

My hand stills. “To everyone? How does that even work?”

She draws invisible circles over my leg. “I just didn’t talk.”

“But how did you answer questions? Like, I believe you. I’m just curious.”

“No one asked me anything.” Lexie lifts her head and wraps her arms around her legs, hugging herself. “No one even noticed.”

My heart breaks clean the fuck open. I don’t say anything. There’s nothing I can say to make it better. So, I slip to the floor behind her and hug her with my entire body, hoping the little girl inside her feels how sorry I am that everyone in her life failed her.

“Not my friends, not my teachers, not our housecleaners, and especially not my parents.”

I squeeze her tight, desperately trying to fuse all her broken bits together.

“By the time someone initiated a conversation with me, I was beyond starved for attention.”

“You’ll never know neglect like that again, Lexie. I promise.”

She’s deep in thought, but she shakes her head as if trying to dispel old memories. “I don’t want to talk about my past anymore. I want to watch you carve something.”

I hug her one more time and then hop up. “I’ve got a piece I started for my sister. It’s for her new baby.”

“I didn’t know Willow was pregnant. How far along is she?”

“Four months. I just found out when I got home. She was waiting to tell everyone until she was sure the pregnancy was moving along as expected. She’s having a girl.” I grab my bag and then sit back down across from her so that our knees are touching. “I usually like to go outside to avoid the mess, but I’ll sweep it up.”

“What are you making her?”

“A wooden bug mobile for her crib.” I pull out a few of the pieces I’ve already finished. “I’m working on a caterpillar now.”

She smiles as she picks up the ladybug piece. “This is such an adorable idea. This baby is lucky to have you as an uncle.”

“They’ll look better once I paint them.”

Her gaze goes to my hands as I take my knife to the already formed caterpillar, giving him a little more character.

“My sister is weird. She’s always had a peculiar admiration for bugs,” I explain.

“Oh, you know what would be so cute? You should write a children’s story including each of them as a character,” she tells me excitedly.

“My sister would love that. We’re both book nerds. You know her non-profit, Willow’s Words, provides books for underprivileged kids all over the country. If she had a book written for her firstborn it would put her over the moon, but I don’t have a storytelling bone in my body.”

“It wouldn’t be that hard. Like, what’s this one’s name?” She holds her hand in front of her face, the little ladybug resting in her palm.