Page 72 of If Love Had A Manual

He scowls like a sullen teenager, but stuffs in a bite of eggs.

While he chews, I survey the carnage: tissues, half-empty toddler meds, coffee mugs, and baby wipes. It’s not bad. Wes is usually neat, but a night of single-parent flu has left its mark.

I roll up my sleeves, grab a dish towel and anti-bacterial spray, and start cleaning the countertop.

Behind me, Wes grumbles, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Compulsive nurturing. Comes with the uterus.”

“I think I’ll keep you.”

I keep my back turned, because if I meet his eyes, I will melt into a Lena-shaped puddle.

With the kitchen sanitized, I switch out the humidifier filter in Rosie’s room and set a load of onesies in the washer.

Wes is where I left him, except his eyes are closed again, and Rosie’s tiny fist is tangled in the collar of his T-shirt. Milo is snoring at his feet.

I perch on the opposite armrest. “You look like a knocked-out heavyweight.”

One eyelid lifts. “It feels like I fought one.”

Beneath that fatigue lies grief. Today isn’t just another day. It would’ve been his sister’s birthday.

I draw a breath, then ask so softly it barely counts as sound. “It’s her birthday today, isn’t it?”

He goes perfectly still, gaze fixed on some point past my shoulder. Then he dips his chin and exhales a long, shaky breath. “She would’ve been thirty-four.”

Silence folds around us, thick but not suffocating.

I offer a tentative smile. “Do you know how they met?”

That pulls a huff of almost-laughter from him. “Oh, yeah. Amber was the sister who told me everything, and I mean everything.”

I settle on the arm of the couch. “Lay it on me, Turner.”

He leans back, eyes a little glassy but mouth curving. “Freshman orientation mixer at UC Davis. Mike tried to impress her by juggling three Solo cups of warm beer. Dropped all of them. Amber applauded, called him a clown, and offered to show him how to shotgun a can properly. He proposed three months later because he said any woman who could out-drink him and call him a clown in the same breath was wifematerial.”

A laugh bursts out of me. Wes’s smile tilts, softer now, the grief and love sharing space in his eyes.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Thanks for asking.” His voice is rough, but steady. “Helps to say it out loud.”

I reach over and give his wrist a gentle squeeze because I don’t really have words for moments like this, and I hated any time someone would try to force them with me. Sometimes it’s enough to know you’re not going to be swallowed whole by your grief. Not alone, anyway.

I stand and ruffle Milo’s ears before I clear my throat. “Soup okay for dinner?”

His wary gaze flicks to mine. “Lena—”

“Just let me help.”

A sigh. “Soup’s fine.”

∞∞∞

By mid-afternoon, Rosie wakes enough to demand Peppa off and cuddles on. She whines until Wes yields and hoists her.

I drop onto the couch beside them with the thermometer and a damp washcloth. “Mind if I steal?”

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