Page 45 of If Love Had A Manual

“Yeah, Dad,” I say, fighting the sting behind my eyes. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing left to say. Like always, our silence is heavy with years of unspoken hurt.

Knowing this won’t go anywhere productive, I step back. “Just listen to her sometimes, okay? Don’t push her away like you did with me. She deserves better than that.”

He doesn’t say a word. Not one. He just stands there watching me turn toward my car.

As I climb behind the wheel, I glance once more toward the house and at the window where I see Tess’s silhouette watching me leave. My heart shatters quietly, but the pieces always settle into a familiar ache. It’s about the only thing that’s predictable about my father.

The tears don’t come until I’m three blocks away, blurring the streets of my old neighborhood into something I no longer recognize.

Sixteen

Wes

There’s oatmeal on my jeans. My shirt’s inside out. Rosie’s been screaming for what feels like an hour, possibly longer, and I’m 90% sure I just put coffee grounds in the kettle and poured hot water into the machine.

When the door swings open and Lena walks in from the hallway, I’m sure the kitchen smells like it’s on fire.

She takes one look around. “Oh, good. The house is still standing. Minor miracles.”

I blow out a frustrated breath as I try to wipe Rosie’s mashed banana off the counter. And my forearm. And my soul.

When Rosie sees Lena, she immediately shrieks, “Na-na-na-na!”

“Traitor,” I mumble.

Lena scoops her up, and Rosie instantly goes limp like she’s been drugged with affection.

Great.

Apparently, shecanregulate her emotions, just not with me.

“Rough morning?” Lena asks, casually handing Rosie a teething biscuit from her magic nanny bag of wonders.

I stare at her, dead-eyed. “Don’t ask.”

She hums and turns toward the sink to clean up Rosie, who is now babbling and chewing contentedly on her biscuit. Meanwhile, I look like a man who’s been personally victimized by a toddler.

Lena is wearing this baggy gray sweatshirt today, because yes, apparently, I’m mentally cataloging her outfit choices now. The sweatshirt is the kind you throw on when you don’t want anyone to look at you. Except for her, it does the opposite. It’s soft and slouchy, hanging just right, and when she reaches up to open a cabinet, it lifts and reveals a flash of skin above the waistband of her leggings. It’s the kind of glimpse that turns your whole morning into a crisis.

Then she shifts Rosie on her hip, and her breasts bounce. Just a little. Just enough.

What the fuck is wrong with me lately?

I don’t know what kind of dreams I’m having, but I wake up tense most mornings. Now I’m wound up so tight I could turn coal into diamonds. I don’t even want to think about the last time I had sex. My right hand and I are in a committed relationship, and it’s starting to judge me.

I need to get laid.

With someone.

Anyone.

Just not the damn nanny.

“Rosie,” Lena coos, “Guess where we’re going today? We’re going to feed the ducks, and then we need to go to the grocery store.”

Rosie claps, delighted with their plans.

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