Page 72 of Broken Trails
So how far off are we talking? Five years? Eight?
I shake my head. I’m not gonna bethatguy, pushing for numbers like it matters. Because it shouldn’t. Except now I want to know. And I don’t know what’s worse—how curious I’ve suddenly become about her, or the fact that none of this is casual anymore.
This was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be a firecracker I steered clear of.
Now she’s afriend. A woman with obvious trauma, a sharp tongue, and a way of looking at me that makes me want to stand still and move closer all at once.
And our first decent conversation? It’s over fucking zoomies. God help me. I run my thumb over the screen once, twice—
The screen lights up again.
Harrison.
Before I can even tap it, the bastard FaceTimes me. I shake my head. “Clingy fuck,” I mutter under my breath, tappingAccept. “What could you possibly want now? I just saw—”
But it’s not Harrison.
It’s Joseph’s face on the screen.
“MIKEY! D’YA WANT DINNER?! At my house!” His face takes up the entire screen, all nostrils and big, blinking eyes, the angle so close I can practically see into his brain.
I bark out a laugh. “Whoa, mate. Ease up. I didn’t need to see your boogers.”
He giggles, breath hitching with excitement. “WE GOT PIZZA! I LIKE PIZZA!”
“I know you do, little man.”
Behind him, I hear Imogen call out, “Joseph! Give me back Daddy’s phone!”
He squeals and takes off running. The camera jolts and bounces, showing glimpses of hallway walls, a stuffed dinosaur, a ceiling fan. His giggles echo down the line, loud and unfiltered.
It’s chaos. Pure, perfect chaos.
Finally, Imogen appears, slightly out of breath as she wrestles the phone from his sticky little hands. “Would you believe me if I said he called you all by himself?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say, grinning.
She rolls her eyes. “We’re ordering pizza. You coming over? Harrison’s sulking about you, says you need some company.”
“What a fucking idiot.”
“But you’re not mad at him.”
“No,” I sigh. “Tell the booger king I’ll be there in ten.”
“Okay, Joseph. You can’t stack a giraffe on a crocodile. It’s physically impossible .”
“Yes, I can,” he says, glaring at me with the full force of his three-year-old fury.
I glance at Hope, who’s strapped into her little bouncer next to us, her legs kicking gleefully. She squeals, like she’s backing him up. Apparently, I’m outnumbered.
Blocks are everywhere—under my knees, in my shoes, stuffed behind my back. I’m being held hostage by a toddler. And not even metaphorically. I tried standing up once—just once—and Joseph chucked a plastic block at my forehead and shouted, “NO. SIT.”
If that’s not his mother reincarnated, I don’t know what is. The kid is bossy as fuck. He might even be bossier than Imogen, butI’m more impressed by the kid’s aim. He’d clocked me right in the middle of my forehead, and I’m still rubbing at where it hit me.
My phone lights up next to me, and my eyes blink rapidly at the sight of Zoe’s name on my screen.
Zoe: If you must know, Sprinkles is chewing on my hair tie. She no longer wants the stupid feather stick. I’ve accepted defeat. Keep your judgement to yourself.
