Page 20 of Reaching Ryan

“Can I tie your shoe?” Her big blue eyes go round and hopeful. “My mom is teaching me bunny ears—she says I have to learn before I can go to Kindergarten but my grandma keeps making me wear baby shoes.” She aims a disgruntled look at her own feet, drawing my attention to a pair of white tennis shoes with Velcro straps and what looks like cartoon mermaids on the sides. “So, can I?”

“Uhh—” I look up again, this time for help, someone to either tell me what to say or hustle her away because I don’t know the first thing about kids except that this one is making me nervous. Before I can come up with an answer, she grins, taking my minor alarm and mild anxiety as a yes.

“Here.” She shoves her sticky soda can into my hand and drops to her knees. “My mom is a good teacher,” she tells me while she grips my laces and pulls them tight before twisting each of them into slightly mismatched loops. “She lets me practice bunny ears on her all the time since I can’t do my own because of the baby shoes.” She crisscrosses the loops and pushes one of them through the hole at the bottom. “Did your mom teach you bunny ears?”

I bark out a laugh because the thought of my mom teaching me anything is ridiculous. When she stops what she’s doing and looks up at me, her face scrunched up in confusion, I figure I should answer her. “Shit, no.”

“You cuss a lot.” The look of confusion morphs into one of disapproval. “My mom says—”

The screen door bangs shut and I look up to see Grace’s father standing a few feet away. “Moll, I think Gran told you that you had a choice between dessert or a soda after dinner,” he says, aiming a frown at the soda can in my hand.

The little girl hunkered down over my foot aims a quick oh, shit look up at me before looking at her grandfather. Before she can lie, I do it for her. “It’s mine,” I tell him. “She got it for me.” To prove it, I lift the bright red can to my mouth and take a swig of soda that’s warm enough to turn my stomach and sweet enough to hurt my teeth.

Grace’s father continues to glare at me. “That so?” he says, watching me fight the grimace that tries to settle onto my face. “You don’t look like a strawberry soda kind of guy.”

“It’s my favorite.” To prove it, I choke down another mouthful.

He watches me for a few more seconds before looking down at his granddaughter. “Go get your sweater, Moll. It’s time to go.”

“But we just got here.” She gives my shoelaces a final tug and stands up to plant her hands on her hips to frown up at him. “Can’t I stay with—”

“Now, Molly Grace.” He barks it at her, but I can tell the rough tone isn’t something either one of them is used to. He looks just as surprised by it as she does.

Her brow crumples even more and for a second it looks like she might cry. Watching her lower lip tremble and her eyes well up, I feel a surge of something that clenches my jaw and tightens my grip on the soda can in my hand. Something I haven’t felt in so long, it takes me a few seconds to recognize it for what it is.

Protectiveness.

No. That’s not entirely true. I felt it last night. When that Rolex wearing douchebag had her mother cornered at Cari’s opening.

Not your woman. Not your kid.

Looking down at Molly I force my mouth into a smile. “Thanks for tying my shoe for me.”

“Welcome,” she grumbles at me, aiming a quick, tearful glare at her grandfather before she stomps her way back into the house.

That leaves me alone with Grace’s father.

“You served.” Even though it’s not a question, I can feel him looking at me, waiting for me to answer him.

“Yes, sir.” Sighing, I set the half-empty can of soda on the porch railing and rub my sticky palm on the leg of my jeans. “For ten years,” I tell him, even though he didn’t ask.

“What branch?”

“Army.” I could elaborate. Tell him that I was a Ranger. Most people are impressed when you tell them you were Special Forces, but I have a feeling I could tell this man that I singlehandedly killed Bin Laden and he wouldn’t care less. Grace’s father has already made his mind up about me and if his expression is any indicator, his isn’t a favorable opinion.

“Figures.” He makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat that tightens the back of my neck.

“Let me guess—” I look at him, taking in the bull neck and beefy shoulders. The stomach, just beginning to show signs of softening. The flint-eyed stare, while ignoring the inner-voice in my head, telling me to shut my fucking mouth. “Marines?”

His head moves back and his chin tips up like he’s waiting for me to take a swing. “Four tours in Iraq—long enough to know some men come back from that place and are able to put it behind them. Stop being a soldier. Start being a husband. A father—and some come home just plain wrong.” Again, his tone leaves no question as to which category he thinks I fall into.

“I’m not sure I understand what your point is, sir.” It’s a lie. I know what he’s saying. What he thinks. He saw me lose my shit on Conner. Saw me talking to his daughter. That she wasn’t happy when our conversation ended. He knows there’s something wrong with me, same as I do. I just want to hear him say it out loud, because maybe if I do, it’ll lend some weight to my own self-loathing.

“Then let me be clear.” He makes that sound again. Harsh and angry, like he’s swallowing rocks. “Stay away from my daughter.”

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