She doesn’t respond. I hear the front door shut and let out a sigh, relieved she walked away. I get lost in shampooing the seat, watching the bubbles form and turn into a white foam.

It’s a pleasant escape. Manual labor has a peculiar way of stilling my mind, easing my worries—keeping me on track and focused on the things that matter.

I'm lost in thoughts of things that matter when I feel a soft hand press against the center of my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut—hard—because I know who I’m about to face and I need to play it cool.

But when I turn to Willa, I feel the pads of her fingers trail along my ribs. And then she’s standing before me, holding a steaming mug of fresh coffee. Wide green eyes look up at me—a hint of confusion in them. So many questions. And a softness that I want to pull out and wrap myself in.

She holds the cup out to me. “Here. Seems like the least I could do.”

And I realize that taking a moment with my eyes closed to give myself an internal pep talk will not keep me away from Willa Grant at all.

I need to try harder because she’s quickly becoming one of those things that matter to me. And I’m not sure I can handle more responsibility.

17

Willa

Luke has managed to keep water, ginger ale, and some soda crackers down over the course of the day. He’s also snuggled the hell out of me on the couch, and I am living for it.

At first, I wasn’t sure. Because with Cade around, I felt he should be the one soaking up the cuddles. But he’s kept himself busy, and I’ve caught the occasional soft look he’s given us on the couch.

Luke’s propped against the end with his legs slung over my lap as he leans into my shoulder. He’s been twiddling my hair in his pudgy fingers for a while now—reminds me of his dad.

We’re watching some cartoon, and I wish I could say what it was about, but I’m altogether too aware of Cade puttering around the house. Cleaning. Fixing stuff.

He literally washed the baseboards.

I’ve never known a man to be so tidy. But he’s also driving me insane. Sitting around while he works makes me twitchy.

When he pulls all the food out of the fridge to wipe things down, I break.

“Cade, you’re giving me a headache. Please come sit and watch some silly, mind-numbing cartoon with us.”

“Hey!” Luke pouts up at me like I’ve just insulted some sort of Oscar-worthy performance rather than something that only holds children’s attention because it’s bright and flashes non-stop. It’s the music that kills me. It’s so bad.