Page 28 of This Broken Heart

17.

Erin

Josh never mentioned the flowers again and I’m afraid to bring it up.

Actually, I’m afraid to touch anything. I already made a mistake with the baking supplies.

And with the flowers, that’s two strikes. I don’t want to know what happens on a third strike, so I’m extra careful about rearranging things.

I can understand where he was coming from. My dad’s work bench still sits untouched—there’s even a half-finished cigar sitting amongst his tools that I won’t let mom throw away. Eventually, we’ll need to sell his bike and clean out the garage. I know this. I’m just not ready to deal with it.

And I’m not in the business of making anyone else move on, either.

It’s like I’ve designated a safe path through his house and I stick to it, avoiding anything I’m not sure about.

I doubt he knows how much he hurt Trace’s feelings, but I don’t have it in me to hold his feet to the fire over it. He’s obviously trying as hard as he can, and those kids are the center of his universe. He needs grace and compassion more than he needs a lecture.

And maybe he already knows he overreacted, because ever since then, he’s been extra polite.

We’re making things work. I’m doing more housework than I envisioned myself doing, but the pay is so much better than anything I’ve had before, I don’t mind.

It’s a lot more fun to cook for a household of four, than trying to figure out portioning for one.

Humming, I stand at the stove buttering bread for grilled cheese.

I glance over at the clock.

It’s six.

Any minute now.

The front door opens, and like clockwork, Josh comes inside to eat dinner with the kids.

The kids are sitting at the table coloring, but like an enthusiastic pair of golden retrievers, they perk up and dash off towards the door.

I smile to myself, listening to that taciturn man greet his kids with a loud, joyful ruckus. They’re in a rare mood tonight. I chop veggies with a smile on my face, listening to the increasingly noisy commotion. As it usually is with kids, the excitement rides the razor-sharp line between pure, unbridled joy and terror.

When Trace starts shouting my name, I step into the living room with the intention of telling Josh to knock it off. A little excitement is fun, too much usually ends in tears.

But Josh is the one who probably needs help. He’s buried under a pile of couch cushions. Trace is straddling his chest, doing his best to keep his dad submerged. Maven has both fists buried in Josh’s hair and is pulling with all her might.

“Erin! Help!” Trace laughs. “I trapped the monster.”

Josh springs to life, tickling Trace with a mighty roar.

Trace twists towards around. “Save me!”

I snag a pillow from an armchair and wade in. Winding back, I swing at Josh, hitting him with more force than I intended. He pretends to fall back, and I take the opportunity to grab Trace. I’ve got him under the arms, but Josh perks up, grabbing Trace’s ankle.

Trace is laughing his head off, losing his mind. Josh is laughing, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that particular expression on his face. His smile is so bright it almost hurts my eyes.

Josh capitalizes on my stupor, jumping to his feet. He circles us, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

I hug Trace to my chest, who is flailing at his dad, peals of laughter spiraling out of him.

Josh starts swinging his arms, hooting like a big monkey. It’s both incredibly amusing and slightly terrifying. Trace and I are both laughing, backing up.

Josh lunges, tickling Trace, trying to tug him out of my arms. Trace is kicking and swinging, no doubt landing a few painful blows, but Josh isn’t deterred. When tickling Trace doesn’t work, he switches tactics, poking at my sides.