More Than I Could (19)

“He did,” Mom says, egging him on. “She’s staying in town. Maybe you should get her, Luke, and see if she needs someone to take her to dinner.”

I fire a glare at my brother. This only makes him laugh.

Mom launches into a second-by-second replay of our meeting with Megan. I gaze out the window and mentally chastise myself.

I’m being ridiculous. I’ve let this whole thing get out of control, and even I am embarrassed at this point.

I block out my family’s conversation and close my eyes.

The two most important things are that Mom gets a break and that Kennedy doesn’t steal a car and head to Mexico with a motorcycle club while I’m gone. My feelings are completely irrelevant.

I hold my forehead.

“I mean, I can watch her on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Luke says, chiding me. “But I’m gonna need money for dinner.”

Mom smacks his arm.

“There’s no need for that. Chase is going to march his ass over to The Ridges and talk to Megan,” Mom says.

I look at her.

“It does seem like the perfect solution,” Luke says, smug. “What’s the problem?”

My brother knows the problem. I can tell by the glimmer in his eye. He manages not to notice obvious things that don’t benefit him, like clean laundry in the washer. But give him the slightest detail that allows him to ride my ass, and he’s all over it like some genius.

Mom’s phone rings. She pulls it out of her bra, her face brightening.

“It’s Kate. I’m going to take it outside.” She starts toward the door. “Talk some sense into your brother, Luke.” She tugs the door open. “I can’t believe I just said that. What’s this world coming to?”

“I heard you,” Luke calls after Mom. Then he flops into a chair and makes himself at home.

“Whatcha gonna do?” he asks, settling in for the long haul. “If it were me, I’d go get the girl and enjoy my thirty days. She sounds like a stunner.”

I sit across from him.

“What’s the problem?” he asks. “Or is that the problem?”

The levity slowly melts from his features, and in its place is a seriousness that Luke doesn’t often possess.

I start to admit that the idea of having Megan in my house feels like a terrible idea. It makes something deep inside me uncomfortable in the most comfortable of ways. It’s as though she absolutely should be here, which is why she shouldn’t be.

I’ve spent an hour with the woman—if that. I have no reason to suggest I don’t trust her. Lame excuse, Marshall. But I have made it an absolute hard limit not to have women around.

That rule exists for a reason.

Kennedy was in first grade when I ended a relationship with a woman I’d seen for a couple of years. Watching my child lose yet another woman she’d come to love was ugly and heartbreaking. Devastating. I vowed never to do it to her again.

And I haven’t.

I sigh. But Megan won’t be here for you. She’ll be here for her. I imagine Megan getting all over my daughter’s ass for acting up. Kennedy will hate her before it’s over anyway.

It’s thirty days. I can deal with jacking off in the shower for thirty days.

“I’m being a jackass,” I say, resting my forearms on the table.

“Yeah, well, you’re a jackass every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

He leans forward, mirroring my posture. “I do. And as much as I’d like to rib you about it, you don’t have much time to spare. Mom leaves Monday. Who knows when your nanny will skip town?”

Yeah. I know.

I need to find Megan and ask her to stay.

My body tightens, struggling against the chaos erupting inside me.

“I’m going to take a shower and find something to eat,” I say, my jaw tensing. “Then I’m going to figure this out.”

“And?”

“And go into town,” I say.

“And?”

“Fuck off, Luke.”

“Are you gonna grovel?” He laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You are, aren’t you? She has you groveling, and you haven’t even touched her yet. This is amazing.”

“Please leave.”

Luke snickers and gets to his feet. “Fine. I’ll be over on Monday to meet the new nanny.”

I hold my head in my hands.

How can one thing simultaneously feel like the right and wrong answer?





Chapter Eight





Megan




It’s too early for the leaves to fall.

I tug my sweatshirt closer to my body as a barrier to the breeze. The temperature must’ve dropped ten degrees since I set out on a walk of Peachwood Falls a couple of hours ago, and I wasn’t prepared. I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to grab a jacket.

The quaint town is reminiscent of a backdrop in a cheesy cable drama. I looked for a coffee shop, Peachwood Falls’s version of Luke’s Diner, but came up empty.

There is only The Wet Whistle.

I stroll down a residential street and take in the small homes on either side of the road. They’re modest with cozy porches complete with swings. Many chairs, coffee tables, bicycles, and topiaries are wound with twinkling white lights. I imagine the townspeople congregating on their porch swings after dinner and waving to one another while the children play.