Page 7

“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.”

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.”

Her half-smile, the first since he’d asked her about being an EMT, sent a cool wave of relief flooding through his veins.

A moment later, she clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a yawn.

“Sorry, I haven’t eaten in, well, I’m not sure.

.. I think I had some coffee...” She trailed off and swayed on her feet.

“We’ll get out of here and let you get some sleep.” He moved toward the living area, meaning to call to Dylan, but stopped at the sight of his son stroking a worn-out Gen’s silky ears while she snored beside him.

“It’s fine,” Abby reassured him through another yawn.

“C’mon, Dylan, let’s let Abby and Gen get some rest.”

“Awww, Dad, do we have to?” Dylan whined. “I like it here.”

Abby flopped onto the couch beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and resting one hand on Gen’s delicate head. “Tell you what, Dylan. You are welcome here anytime. If ,” she glanced back at Scott, “you have your dad’s permission.”

“Promise?”

Abby held out her little finger. “Pinky swear.”