Page 20 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Thirteen

“Were you and my dad a thing?” Wren asks, peeling a strip of wallpaper.

“Hm.” I swallow my initial response of piss off due to not wanting her to slip off into another silent hole and drag a sponge down the wall. “I’ll make you a deal, every time you ask me a question, I get to ask you one.”

Her eyeliner makes her look like an extra in a scary movie as she looks at me. Nearly three weeks of her showing almost daily and I still don’t know much about her. If she needs me to talk to get her to talk, I’ll play.

“Fine,” she mumbles.

I wedge a scraper under a lifted corner of wallpaper.

“We were a kind of thing,” I start, choosing my words carefully.

Not sure how to explain the kind of thing that consumes you mind, body, and soul.

The kind of thing that makes you see forever only to find it was a mirage.

“We were never anything official. But I never dated anyone else as long as we were together—which was years—I don’t think he did either.

Of course, I never gave him the satisfaction of asking. ”

“Why?”

“That’s two questions,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“But I’ll answer because I’m feeling generous.

” She rolls her eyes. “I always thought labels were pointless. Everything I witnessed showed me a title never guaranteed happiness or love.” I shrug.

“My parents were married, but it never made them happy. I never wanted it. I thought if it was meant to be it didn’t need a name, it just was.

I think it drove your dad crazy how untethered I was.

” I laugh softly. “Probably still does.”

“And now?”

“I draw the line at three questions,” I deflect.

Because what happened was, after years of him chasing me around, my brother died and Ford ran away to start a new life that didn’t involve me, leaving me to pick up the pieces of how much damage that caused—how broken he left me—alone.

“My turn.” I desperately want to start with a heavy hitter.

About her mom, her eyeliner, hell, even her sweatshirts that make no sense in the weather, but I have a feeling she’ll shut down.

So instead, I go easy. “Why do you like Lindsey Stirling?”

A smile curves her lips as she peels a section of paper from the wall. “I like that there’s no lyrics. You can decide if the song is happy or sad, you know? If it’s about love or loss or . . . dandelions and marshmallows. ”

“Aren’t you an insightful little sh—” She looks at me. “—ellfish.”

She almost laughs.

“My turn again. Do you want to date my dad now?”

I debate slapping her.

“That’s . . .” I stare at the ugly plaid wallpaper, searching for a word both meaning so bad it hurts as much as over my dead body . “Complicated.” When she starts to open her mouth, I add, “We’re nothing. And I’m selling this place and moving.”

She makes a disbelieving sound. “Where are you moving to?”

“The desert.” I point to a stack of real estate magazines at the base of the steps. “Arizona maybe. I’m still thinking. Maybe New Mexico. Or Utah.”

She stills, pinching a piece of wallpaper between her fingers midair as she looks at me. “Why?”

The simple word irks me. Moving is about me leaving more than any actual destination. The truth is I don’t care. It’s about being somewhere else where I can breathe deep and not constantly be reminded of every wrong thing I’ve done or failed to do. Maine or New Mexico, I just don’t give a shit.

“Because I want to,” I snap. “And no more questions about me and your dad.” She opens her mouth. “Or where I’m moving.”

A noise outside takes my attention to the window. Ford backs his truck down the driveway, stopping just shy of the bird feeders.

Wren and I stand at the wall of windows, watching as he gets out of the truck.

He’s wearing dark pants, duty belt, and an army-green T-shirt with a black bulletproof vest over it, lacking the uniform shirt that’s usually over it.

He drags a bag of birdseed to the tailgate and rips it open then fills each feeder before tossing the empty bag into the back and slamming the tailgate.

Molly gives a loud bark and he waves, easy smile on his face.

“Nothing, my ass,” Wren says. “My dad’s feeding your birds.”

“Don’t say ass.” I don’t look away from Ford as he starts walking toward the house. “And I’m not into birds, only monsters. His efforts do nothing for me.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, going back to her patch of wallpaper as Ford climbs the steps of the porch and enters the house through the propped-open door.

“Officer Callahan,” I say. “Back for more punishment, I see.”

“A glutton for it,” he says with a quick wink before looking around the house. “Looks good in here.”

“Liar.” I shake my head as I accept the truth: It’s a wreck.

The carpeting is out of the living room, but the cabinets still need to be demoed out of the kitchen.

As well as the heavy pieces of destroyed countertops.

And the linoleum floor that covers that half of the house.

And the appliances that are so heavy I could only get them to the middle of the downstairs before nearly dying.

“I was hoping to get everything out and start painting next weekend but that feels . . . ambitious.”

“Want help?” he asks.

Dear God, yes!

“I’m good.”

“Done!” Wren shouts, proudly showcasing a large strip of wallpaper between her fingertips.

“And I’m leaving.” She peels her gloves off and jogs to Ford, her combat boots pounding against the floor until she stops to give him a hug.

“I have that study group at the school. Lily’s mom is picking me up. ”

He kisses her temple. “Have fun. Text me if you need anything.”

“Sure.” Sweat mats her hair to her forehead and she rolls her eyes—which she might do more than blinking—before we regard one another.

“Thank you for helping,” I tell her. “You’re more useful than you look.”

“You’re shockingly less useful than you look,” she says, devoid of emotion.

I feel a smirk tug at my lips. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?”

“Only if that’s yours.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a pep to her movements as she trots down the porch steps. “Hey, Dad?” she calls, lifting her bike in the driveway and walking it a few steps. He steps in the doorway. “I think Scotty still has the hots for you.”

“Hey!” I shout, shoving Ford out of the way so I’m standing on the porch. “I was trying to forge a relationship by being vulnerable, you tattletale. And I never said that!”

She ignores me, already pedaling down the road.

When I look at Ford, he’s smug, and I feel my neck heating—I’m flushed. This kid is the absolute worst. “I didn’t say that.”

He fights a smile. “Explains why you made me strip.”

“That,” I explain, flustered, “was because I wanted to see if your dick sprouted feathers. ”

He barks out a laugh, eyes roaming the disaster of a house. “This the better thing you had to do the other night?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay then.” He breezes back to his truck and returns with a duffle bag.

My eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

He tugs at the Velcro straps at his sides, slipping the vest over his head and putting it by the door.

“I’m getting changed.” My why the hell would you do that look prompts him to add, “So I can free up some of your time.”

Ford is annoyingly useful. Mere hours after he arrives, the entire kitchen is in pieces at the curb and all the appliances are out of the house. It would have taken me four hundred years to do that job alone.

We barely spoke as we worked. I cranked music, and other than grunting and chuckled swear words, there wasn’t much else. Now, on the porch, it’s quiet as we sit with our legs dangling off the edge eating delivered sandwiches for dinner.

It’s nearly seven, but there’s still plenty of light. Early September is warm enough that boaters and kayakers linger on the lake.

“Wren seemed happy,” he says between bites. “Today go good?”

I nod, wiping my mouth.

“She likes you.”

I chuckle between bites.

“I think she’s more intrigued about why you trust me with her.” Molly sits in front of me, making whimpered begs for food until I toss her a piece of bread. “What has you so worried anyway? She seems normal to me. Granted, the only teen I’ve ever spent time around is June’s daughter.”

“Nothing. Everything.” He blows out a weighted breath.

“She’s moody—and I know that’s a teenage thing—but some days it feels more than that.

She’ll shut in. Go silent for a few days at a time.

We never argue until we do.” He’s quiet a beat, and I consider what he’s saying.

Even though I don’t know what it means, I try to piece it together.

“I never knew her mom was pregnant—didn’t even know Wren existed until she was three.

Because her mom, Riley’s her name, was arrested for possession and I got a call to get her.

” My eyes widen, a combination of shock and guilt churning in my gut.

He chuckles. “My reaction exactly. Had a paternity test but I didn’t need it—she was the spitting image of my baby pictures.

I got custody easily, but Riley didn’t lose all her rights.

God knows what Wren saw in those first few years, or even on the few overnight visits she had after.

But when she killed that girl . . . I don’t know.

The trial dragged on for nearly a year. Took a toll on Wren.

There was a shift. Her moods, her clothes. The makeup.”

I have no answers, so I stay silent, chewing and thinking and chewing and thinking.

Of my own childhood, my own reactions to the shit thrown my way.

Of all the decisions I’ve made that have led to where we are.

Him having a kid he didn’t know existed morphing the blood in my veins to a slow-moving sludge.

A red bird lands on the feeder. “That one of your girlfriends?” I ask around a mouthful of food.

His laugh nearly turns to a choke on his sandwich. “A cardinal,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “A male. Most males have brighter colors. Some say they’re a sign of lost loved ones looking after you when you see them.”

Another bird lands, blue and white with a little mohawk. I look at him.

“Tufted titmouse.”

At that ridiculous name, I laugh like a fifth-grade boy.

“How did this happen?” I ask as I ball up my trash and shove it into the bag. “This has a very listens to NPR and plays online chess with strangers vibe.”

He takes his last bite and balls up his trash, collecting the bag as we stand.

“The job—especially in Atlanta—is a lot. The things cops see—the things they can’t change or unsee—it’s .

. .” He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly, eyes closing like he’s reliving the worst parts of his past—the parts I know nothing about—before reopening them.

“A lot. I was drinking more than I should, pretty pissed most of the time, but when I got Wren”—he shrugs—“I just quit. We spent a lot of time sitting on our back porch, just for fresh air, you know? I imagined she’d lived through a lot of chaos, so I tried to make things calm.

She’d color or play with blocks. The birds started landing, she started asking questions.

And, with her name—it just happened, I guess.

I became a sober-cop, bird-nerd anomaly.

” He grins, and it’s as proud as it is contagious .

“Well, it suits you,” I say, studying the nuances of his face as we stroll toward the water. There’s a faded white scar on his jaw, noticeable because the maybe-on-purpose, maybe-not scruff doesn’t grow as thick there. A mole on his neck I remember touching with my index finger when we were young.

“You staring at me, Viper?” he asks, the look in his eyes knowing I damn well am.

“I am,” I admit. “Trying to see what it is I ever found attractive about you.”

He laughs softly as we stop at the canoe.

“What about you, Scotty Armstrong? What are you into, if not birds and illegitimate children?”

“Ah,” I say, feigning deep consideration. “I’m into ashes. And monster smut. And sometimes I renovate houses.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, corners of his eyes crinkling when they meet mine. “Still elusive as ever.”

“Not really,” I tell him. “That’s all I got. I’ve been in Ledger.” I raise my eyebrows. “Same shit, different decade.”

His eyes on mine feel gravitational, like if I look at them long enough they'll suck me right to him. I force myself to look at the water, both of us quiet until we reach the shoreline.

At the canoe, he flips it over and kneels next to it, rubbing his palm along the bottom then looking up at me with a grin. “What are you doing the rest of the night?”

“Taking a bath in an outdated bathtub. Reading a book about a devastatingly handsome lizard.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Why?”

He stands, holding out a paddle. “Let’s see if she floats. ”

Every warning alarm in my body goes off as I look at the paddle wrapped in his fingers. The way I immediately want to. The speed at which the instant shot of warmth and excitement zips through me. How my heart immediately pounds at an unusually fast rhythm.

“I shouldn’t,” I say, not convincing either of us as the lake sits feet away, painted in gold, looking like a scene made to be in.

“Ahh.” There’s a teasing quality to his voice. “I get it now.”

My eyebrows pinch.

“I got old and ugly,” he says with a knowing smirk. “But you, Scotty Armstrong, got boring.”

He’s goading me; it works.

With a glare, I snatch the paddle out of his hand. “I hope a bird shits on your head.”

With a victorious smile: “Some things never change.”

He pushes the canoe into the water and tosses his keys and phone onto the shore. I step in, taking a wobbly seat at the front.

He chuckles from the seat behind me; I wave a middle finger in the air without looking at him.

I have no doubt he knows I’m also smiling.