Page 41 of Now to Forever

“Maybe.”

“Okay then.” He breezes back to his truck and returns with a duffle bag.

My eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

He tugs at the Velcro straps at his sides, slipping the vest over his head and putting it by the door.

“I’m getting changed.” Mywhy the hell would you do thatlook prompts him to add, “So I can free up some of your time.”

Ford is annoyingly useful. Mere hours after he arrives, the entire kitchen is in pieces at the curb and all the appliances are out of the house. It would have taken me four hundred years to do that job alone.

We barely spoke as we worked. I cranked music, and other than grunting and chuckled swear words, there wasn’t much else. Now, on the porch, it’s quiet as we sit with our legs dangling off the edge eating delivered sandwiches for dinner.

It’s nearly seven, but there’s still plenty of light. Early September is warm enough that boaters and kayakers linger on the lake.

“Wren seemed happy,” he says between bites. “Today go good?”

I nod, wiping my mouth.

“She likesyou.”

I chuckle between bites.

“I think she’s more intrigued about why you trust me with her.” Molly sits in front of me, making whimpered begs for food until I toss her a piece of bread. “What has you so worried anyway? She seems normal to me. Granted, the only teen I’ve ever spent time around is June’s daughter.”

“Nothing. Everything.” He blows out a weighted breath. “She’s moody—and I know that’s a teenage thing—but some days it feels more than that. She’ll shut in. Go silent for a few days at a time. We never argue until we do.” He’s quiet a beat, and I consider what he’s saying. Even though I don’t know what it means, I try to pieceit together. “I never knew her mom was pregnant—didn’t even know Wren existed until she was three. Because her mom, Riley’s her name, was arrested for possession and I got a call to get her.” My eyes widen, a combination of shock and guilt churning in my gut. He chuckles. “My reaction exactly. Had a paternity test but I didn’t need it—she was the spitting image of my baby pictures. I got custody easily, but Riley didn’t lose all her rights. God knows what Wren saw in those first few years, or even on the few overnight visits she had after. But when she killed that girl . . . I don’t know. The trial dragged on for nearly a year. Took a toll on Wren. There was a shift. Her moods, her clothes. The makeup.”

I have no answers, so I stay silent, chewing and thinking and chewing and thinking. Of my own childhood, my own reactions to the shit thrown my way. Of all the decisions I’ve made that have led to where we are. Him having a kid he didn’t know existed morphing the blood in my veins to a slow-moving sludge.

A red bird lands on the feeder. “That one of your girlfriends?” I ask around a mouthful of food.

His laugh nearly turns to a choke on his sandwich. “A cardinal,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “A male. Most males have brighter colors. Some say they’re a sign of lost loved ones looking after you when you see them.”

Another bird lands, blue and white with a little mohawk. I look at him.

“Tufted titmouse.”

At that ridiculous name, I laugh like a fifth-grade boy.

“How did this happen?” I ask as I ball up my trash and shove it into the bag. “This has a verylistens to NPR and plays online chess with strangersvibe.”

He takes his last bite and balls up his trash, collecting the bag as we stand. “The job—especially in Atlanta—is a lot. The things cops see—the things they can’t change or unsee—it’s . . .” He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly, eyes closing like he’s reliving the worst parts of his past—the parts I know nothing about—before reopening them. “A lot. I was drinking more than I should, pretty pissed most of the time, but when I got Wren”—he shrugs—“I just quit. We spent a lot of time sitting on our back porch, just for fresh air, you know? I imagined she’d lived through a lot of chaos, so I tried to make things calm. She’d color or play with blocks. The birds started landing, she started asking questions. And, with her name—it just happened, I guess. I became a sober-cop, bird-nerd anomaly.” He grins, and it’s as proud as it is contagious.

“Well, it suits you,” I say, studying the nuances of his face as we stroll toward the water. There’s a faded white scar on his jaw, noticeable because the maybe-on-purpose, maybe-not scruff doesn’t grow as thick there. A mole on his neck I remember touching with my index finger when we were young.

“You staring at me, Viper?” he asks, the look in his eyes knowing I damn well am.

“I am,” I admit. “Trying to see what it is I ever found attractive about you.”

He laughs softly as we stop at the canoe.

“What about you, Scotty Armstrong? What are you into, if not birds and illegitimate children?”

“Ah,” I say, feigning deep consideration. “I’m into ashes. And monster smut. And sometimes I renovate houses.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, corners of his eyes crinkling when they meet mine. “Still elusive as ever.”

“Not really,” I tell him. “That’s all I got. I’ve been in Ledger.” I raise my eyebrows. “Same shit, different decade.”

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