Page 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHANGES

BOWIE

The boxes are piled high in my living room, mocking me. Stamped with my mom’s loopy handwriting, I wonder how she had the time to get everything packed so quickly. She must have not been sleeping since the funeral. She sits perched on the couch with a cup of tea, overseeing the chaos with an air of calm that grates on my nerves.

The guys bustle around the house, carrying furniture inside. Poor Martha skitters all over the place, trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

“Do you really need all this? It’s a temporary situation, remember?” I ask.

She frowns. “You don’t want me to feel displaced, do you?”

“Of course not.” My jaw grinds together and I walk out of the living room.

“Last box is in the truck,” Henley announces, wiping sweat off his brow with his shirt. “But fair warning, it’s labeled ‘kitchen,’ and I don’t think there’s a single thing in it that belongs in a kitchen.”

“Antiques,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “She can’t let anything go.”

“Not true!” Mom calls from the other room, sounding perkier than she’s sounded in years. “I let your father go.”

Rhodes shoots me a look. “Awkward,” he mutters.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. The noise, the boxes, my mom’s cheerful tone—it’s all too much. I step outside to take a breather…and grab the last box.

I didn’t expect my dad’s death to hit me hard. I actually thought it might be a relief, if I’m honest with myself. He was abusive and a shadow I’ve spent my whole life trying to outrun, but now that he’s gone, there’s no closure. There were no final parting words to settle the wounds, no moment of warmth by his side in the hospital that softened any edges of our history.

And my mom thinking she can show up for me now…I’m not sure how to categorize these feelings. The normal things I do to lock things away are not working.

I set the box on the porch and lean against the railing. My mom steps out, pulling her sweater tighter .

“I know this isn’t what you want,” she says. “Me being here.”

I don’t respond.

She sighs and looks down at her hands. “I want to be a better mom,” she says, her voice low but steady. “And you need someone to be all over you, meddling in your life. That’s what moms do.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You? Meddling? That’s a scary thought.”

She reaches out and touches my arm. “I mean it, Bowie. I want to try. For you. For Becca.”

My throat tightens and I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Now,” she says briskly, patting my arm. “Go help your friends unpack the kitchen box. It has my collection of miniature giraffes. They will look so good in your kitchen.”

I groan. My house is decorated sparsely on purpose.

She laughs. “Come on, your house could stand some brightening up.”

For some reason, that makes me think of Poppy, and I pull out my phone. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to check on someone.”

She goes inside and I text Poppy.

I hope you’re feeling better.

I wait outside a few minutes to see if I hear from her. She usually texts right back, but she doesn’t this time, and when an hour passes and then two and I still haven’t heard from her, I’m concerned.

I happen to be outside again when Elle pulls up and gets out of the car, holding huge containers of food. I jog over to take them from her .

“Hey,” she says. “Thanks. I’ll grab the rest.” She turns back to the car and gets more food out.

“How much food did you bring?”

“Enough for an army…or you know, five huge football players with hearty appetites…and Tru’s coming right behind me. She says she’s hangry.”

We both laugh.

“Have you heard from Poppy today, by any chance?” I ask.

Her eyes light up and she smirks. “Why, yes, I have.”

My face must fall slightly because her smirk drops.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Oh…nothing. I just wondered if she was okay. She left in a hurry the other night, not feeling well, and hasn’t answered my text today.”

She frowns. “She must be busy or something. She texted in our thread this morning that she’s feeling better.”

“Good.” I nod, feeling awkward as shit.

She bumps me with her elbow. “You like her.”

I aim for nonchalance when I say, “Well, sure. She’s nice. Everyone likes her.”

Her eyes narrow on me and I shift uncomfortably. “No, you like her, like her. You should ask her out, Bowie. I bet she’d say yes.”

I’m already shaking my head. “I don’t need to complicate things.”

“So you do like her.”

I look at her dryly. “This food is heavy.”

“Psssh. Like it weighs anything for you, Bowie Fox.” She rolls her eyes and motions me forward with her head. “Go on. Let’s eat. But this topic is not tabled.”

“You and Rhodes actually share a brain, don’t you.”

She looks so pleased by that, I have to laugh .

“It’s possible we do, but I’ll never admit it to him,” she says, laughing.

We eat and it helps so much having my friends here. The mood lightens considerably and my tension eases as the day goes on. I still don’t want my mom living with us, but I don’t have to work through it all today. Everyone stays late playing cards and just keeping us company, and I’m grateful.

Weston hands me The Single Dad Playbook before he leaves and I open it after everyone’s gone.

We all have parts of our family in us,

but it doesn’t define who we are.

It doesn’t have to, anyway.

We have the choice to carry the good with us,

and the choice to not repeat any history

that doesn’t serve us.

I’m proud of who we are as fathers.

Bowie, you are the most selfless dad I’ve ever known.

Rhodes, you are the funnest (and funniest)

dad I’ve ever known.

Weston, you are the coolest dad I’ve ever known.

Penn, even though you’re not a dad yet,

I can see how great you’ll be when the time comes

from the way you are with Sam and all of our kids.

But for now, you’re the prettiest. ;)

I’m just extra proud of us right now

and needed to say it.

~Henley

It’s weird that we’re at the age where we’r e

going to start losing parents.

Not that it’s going to happen right away,

but with Bowie’s dad gone now, it’s a reality check.

It reminds me to prioritize those

who are important to me:

Sadie, Caleb, my family, and you guys.

That’s all I need right there.

~Weston

Sam has started talking more about the abuse

he’s gone through at home,

the reasons he’s in foster care.

I hate it, you guys.

I want to take him out of that situation

and make it all better

because his foster homes aren’t always better either,

but I feel helpless.

I think I’m going to start trying to figure out

how to get custody of him myself.

Is that crazy?

I’m a single guy who doesn’t have much consistency,

but I want to.

I have you guys to look up to and show me the way,

but you’re not the ones

the court system will be evaluating.

I don’t know…it’s probably a horrible idea.

~Penn

I set the book down and open our text thread.

I just read the last few entries in the playbook. I love you guys. I don’t know what I would do…on a regular basis, not just right now…without you. But thank you for today. Thank you for all the days. And Penn…what you said about getting custody of Sam—you should do it. You love that kid and he loves you, and I have complete faith in you. All the shit we give you aside, you’re a good man and you’ll be an even better dad.

Rhodes

Holy fuck, crying.

Weston

^ Same.

Henley

That is perfectly said, Bow. And he’s right, Penn. You’ve got this and we will support you every step of the way.

Penn

For once in my life, I’m speechless. Thank you, Bowie. Thanks, guys.

And before I can talk myself out of it, I text Poppy.

You’re alive over there, right?

I see the dots and breathe easier. They disappear and then pop up again.

Poppy

Hey, sorry. Yes, I’m alive over here. Thanks.

Something is unsettling about her response. She doesn’t sound like Poppy…which is dumb because it’s not like we’ve texted a ton to begin with, but when we do, it’s more an imated, like she is.

I round the corner to the kitchen and see my mom pouring another cup of hot tea. She points at me.

“It’s past your bedtime.” When I don’t say anything, she laughs. “I’m kidding. Lighten up, Maus,” she says.

My lips lift at the nickname. “You haven’t called me mouse in a while.”

“You’ll always be my maus,” she says.

She opens her arms and I go over and hug her. I tower over her, so she has to rear back to look up at me. She gives my hair a tug.

“You need a haircut.”

I lift my eyebrows.

“And I’m not kidding about that,” she adds.