The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(16)

I swerve gently to avoid a pothole, and Jo giggles. The road needs to be maintained, but it’s nothing compared to how disastrous my driveway is. Who knew you needed to continually add gravel to a gravel driveway? Not I. Just another joy of home ownership! Since I haven’t added gravel, the heavy rains we’ve had the last few summers resulted in potholes the size of baby pools. When it rains hard, that’s exactly what they become. I let Jo put on her bathing suit and play in them just last month when it was a little warmer.

“I’m sure, baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jo says, starting one of my favorite games, one I hope she’ll never outgrow.

“I’m sure, potato.”

She giggles, and the sound eases something loose in my chest. “I’m not a potato.”

“I’m sure, pancake.”

“I’m not a food!” she says through giggles.

“Fine. Chickadee?”

“Better.”

“Bear cub?”

“Yes! Bear cub.”

Of course bear cub is the way to go. Great whites aren’t her only fascination this month. All apex predators are on the menu. Before apex predators, Jo was into baking.

I preferred conversations about icing versus frosting. (Confession: I’m still not sure of the difference, but Jo could tell me.) She was disappointed I never learned to bake aside from boxed cake mix, which I can make with the best of them.

“How do you know that man isn’t my daddy?”

“Why do you think he is?”

And why is she so obsessed with this line of questioning, which only makes me wonder what kind of father figure Pat would be. Because I have a sneaking suspicion he’d be amazing—IF he stuck around long enough.

“Because you look mad at him,” Jo says. “And I know you’re mad at my mama and daddy.”

Gah! Can a day go by where this girl doesn’t have the power to punch me in the gut with her questions and observations? For a five-year-old, Jo is intensely curious and exceptionally bright. She started reading at age three—yes, THREE—which only intensified her tendency to talk like a miniature adult. I thought reading that early was a myth, kind of like when people say their kids decided one day to start using the toilet all on their own. (I still maintain those people are lying. Potty training isn’t for punks.) Anyway, she has the ability to pick up on way more than a normal five-year-old.

Like the fact that I’m mad at her mom and dad, whoever he might be.

I’ve done my best to shield Jo from the ugliest parts of her past, and I try not to disparage Rachel. It’s a very fine line to walk when I want to be honest and also protect Jo’s tender, growing heart. I thought she’d freak out when I told her about the upcoming hearing, but Jo only shrugged and said, “No one would let someone so irresponsible as Rachel raise a child.”

I agree. But her nonchalant reply broke me a little. Also, based on my conversation with Ashlee today, it isn’t true.

I draw in a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, mentally feeling them expand. I imagine the oxygen molecules attaching to my blood and circulating through my body, spreading calm. As our crooked mailbox comes into view, I count the fence posts stretching ahead.

“Sometimes I am mad at your mama and daddy. They don’t know what they’re missing because you are the best bear cub around.” She giggles, and I continue. “I know the man in the diner is not your daddy because he never met your mama.”

“But he knew you?”

“Yeah, bear cub. A long time ago, he did.”

I can almost hear Jo turning this knowledge over in her mind, a shiny rock to study. “And he left you like mama left me?”

No, not exactly like that. And there’s the rub.

My throat constricts, and I press a hand to my chest. But it’s like trying to plug up a crack in a dam with only your fingers.

“He left me, but not like your mama. And I left him in a way,” I admit, feeling the truth of the words burn like whiskey in my throat. “People sometimes hurt each other, even when they don’t mean to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Jojo. We just do.”

As I turn into the driveway, Jo pipes up from the back seat. “Well, he’s not leaving now.”

That’s the moment I see a fancy sports car stuck in a pothole that’s really more of a sinkhole. It’s definitely not coming out without a tow truck. Or a forklift.

And on our front porch: the man I can’t seem to escape today.

Pat should NOT look right at home sitting on the sagging front steps of our little farmhouse. It’s not fair. The traitor dogs should be chasing him off the property. Instead, Amber licks his face with effusive yellow lab love while Beast, the heavily overweight terrier mix, is perched on Pat’s knees, looking ready to make that lap his permanent new home.

I’m so distracted I forget about one of the last potholes and the car bumps over it so hard, my head almost hits the ceiling.

“Whoa!” Jo giggles as I pull the car to a stop. I hear the zip of her seatbelt.

“Jo—hang on a sec!”

But she’s off and running through the yard toward the trespasser. Pat gets to his feet, scooping up Beast under one arm like a furry football.

When Pat beams down at Jo, I want to hate him for the way this starts to defrost my frozen heart. I melt completely into a puddle when he crouches down to her eye level as she starts talking, her mouth moving a mile a minute and her arms waving. She has already stuck herself to him like a postage stamp. Which only makes me angrier.