Prologue
Ray
Past
“I never wanted this!” Brianna flails her hands dramatically around the room. “To be a mother. To be… attached to the same person for the rest of my life.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I snort then laugh without humor. “Bit late for that, Bri.” I glance down the hall toward our bedroom, praying our fight—one of several over the past two and a half years since learning we’d be parents—doesn’t wake Tucker. “You are a mother. I am a father.” I gesture between us. “We are parents. And we will always be attached—to each other and our child.”
Her entire frame stiffens as she curls her hands into tight fists at her sides. “Don’t talk to me like a fucking idiot, Ray,” she grits out between clenched teeth. “Just because I gave birth doesn’t mean I want to be a mother. Doesn’t mean I have to be. Maybe someone else should take him.”
Spinning on her heel, she heads for the door and dons her coat.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Brianna keeps her back to me as she picks up her purse and riffles through it. An exasperated huff floats through the room as she tosses the purse down and darts around me for the hallway. “Did you take my keys?”
I bolt after her, hoping to stop her from turning the bedroom upside down with Tucker in his toddler bed. When Brianna gets like this, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself.
Well, that’s not entirely true. There is one other thing she cares about.
Several months ago, I walked in on Brianna in the bathroom as she popped a couple pills into her mouth. Concern wrinkled my forehead as I met her gaze in the mirror. Worried she had a cold and needed isolation so Tucker didn’t catch whatever she had, I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong and how I could help.
But I snapped my mouth shut the moment I glanced down at the vanity. An unlabeled prescription bottle sat uncapped on the counter. None of the pills inside the small container the same shape or color.
In a flash, a million questions ran through my head.
What is she taking?
How long has she been taking them?
Does she take them when alone with Tucker?
As I held her gaze in the mirror, I asked the first question. She’d given me a plausible answer.
“I’ve been getting migraines. A guy at work said he used to get them and tried a few medications before he found one that worked. He gave me a few to try.”
At the time, like a naive fool, I believed her. The stress of parenthood, plus working insane hours on opposite schedules so we were with Tucker as often as possible, took its toll on us both. Brianna hadn’t given me a reason not to trust her, and the last thing I needed to do was divide us with my irrational thoughts.
But I should have pushed the subject. I should have asked more questions or taken a closer look at the pills.
Not long after that day, Brianna morphed into someone else. Someone unrecognizable.
As her sparkle dulled, my guilt and concern multiplied.
I should’ve said more that day in the bathroom. Should’ve offered to adjust my schedule and give her more downtime. Should’ve paid closer attention after the night she popped those pills.
There’s so much I should’ve done but didn’t do. In my own way, I care for her. Trust her. And she played me like the gull I am.
“No, Bri, I didn’t take your keys,” I whisper-hiss in the dimly lit bedroom.
She shuffles everything on top of the dresser, not giving a damn about the noise.
Tucker squirms and rolls over in his toddler bed, less than five feet from my side of our queen mattress. But he doesn’t wake, thank goodness.
Brianna continues the hunt for her car keys, tossing things on the floor as she moves from one spot to the next. When she starts toward the nightstand between our bed and Tucker, I step in front of her and extend my arms.
“No,” I whisper with firm authority. “Your keys aren’t over here. And you will not wake and scare Tucker by throwing shit near him.”
Brianna tries to push past me, but I hold my ground.
“Asshole.” The insult echoes loudly off the walls before she pivots and storms out of the room.
Dropping my arms, I inhale a slow, deep, steadying breath.
I can’t do this anymore.
I glance over my shoulder at my sweet, jovial, innocent son.
He shouldn’t have to live like this either.
Exiting the bedroom, I ease the door shut but leave it open a few inches. As I enter the living room, my gaze drifts to Brianna as she upends the sofa cushions and digs between the cracks. Frenetic energy floats throughout the apartment as she knocks over pictures and keepsakes without care.
“We should move to Stone Bay.”
My words make her freeze. Straightening her spine, she peers over her shoulder, a scowl carved into her features. “So that’s how it is?”
Narrowing my eyes slightly, I tilt my head, confused. “How what is, Bri?”
“Life gets shitty, so you run back to Mommy and Daddy.”
I fight the urge to act as childish as she is, knowing it won’t better the situation. “Who said anything about running?” Inching closer to her, I reach for her arm. Extend a proverbial olive branch. “We need help, Bri. And my family would love to be there for us and Tucker.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “Of course.” Disdain coats her tone.
And just like that, I’m over being the nice guy. Done bending over backward for this woman who seems to give no fucks about me or our son. “Of course, what?” I ask, my tone and volume matching hers.
The corner of her mouth twitches. A twinkle dances in her eyes. As if me going toe to toe with her brings her some perverse sense of joy. Before I have time to explore why, a deadpan expression replaces her scorn.
“What about my family, Ray?” She stabs the center of her chest with a finger. “Do they not count?”
“That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Turning her back on me, she goes back to searching for her keys.
“You don’t talk about your family much, Bri. And the little you have shared…” I drag a hand through my hair. “You haven’t painted a pretty picture.”
Eyes downcast, she shoulder-checks me as she passes and enters the open kitchen. “They weren’t the best parents, but they’re still my family.”
Now she is throwing bullshit to see what will stick. Fine. If that is how she wants to play, I can throw it right back.
“Really?”
She pauses and peeks over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, but doesn’t say a word.
“We’ve been together how long?” Before I give her a chance to answer, I continue. “Not once have we or you spent time with them. Not once have you texted or spoken with them on the phone.” As each word leaves my lips, the irritation flowing through my veins builds, expands, becomes borderline explosive. “Do they even know about Tucker?”
Whipping around, she stomps across the room and shoves at my chest. “Fuck you.”
Am I the asshole for that last jab? Yeah, I am. My parents would reprimand me for saying such a callous thing to the mother of my child. Regardless, the question needs to be asked.
Brianna and I need help raising Tucker. Period.
It isn’t about money. If finances were an issue, I’d ask my parents for a loan. They’d happily lend me whatever we needed and wave me off every time I tried to pay it back.
What we need is someone willing to help with day care. Sure, Tucker could go to a place nearby and develop social skills early. He could play with other kids around his age and start preschool learning before most children. The list of perks is extensive.
But the bill for childcare would eat up most of one of our salaries. One or both of us would have to shift our schedules to accommodate the day care’s business hours. We’d have to work extra hours to foot the bill and still have enough to live after.
Which is why our schedules are the way they are now.
“It’s a shitty question.” And not one I regret asking. “Doesn’t make it any less valid.”
Fists trembling at her sides, she works her jaw back and forth. Any moment, I expect Brianna to swing. To punch or slap me in the face. To scream and tell me to go to hell.
Instead, she spins around and storms to the fridge. She whips the door open, shuffles the contents from one side to the other, grabs a bottle of beer, then lets out a squeal of delight.
I hear the jingle of her keys as she takes a step back. A smile I haven’t seen in far too long lights her face as she closes the fridge door and faces me. It’s the same smile that lured me closer to her. The smile that gives me an ounce of hope.
“Bri…” Her shortened name is soft on my tongue.
“Just let me have tonight,” she pleas, her anger and frustration from a moment ago gone. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is one of those rare occasions we both have the day off. It’s the perfect time to sit down, talk about the future, and map out what steps to take next.
“Sure. Yeah.” I glance toward the bedroom door. “Maybe lunch at the park with Tucker.”
Her smile grows impossibly brighter. “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Stepping into me, she wraps her arms around my middle. “Sorry for yelling. It’s not fair to dump on you like that.”
The swift change in her demeanor is pleasant yet unsettling.
I hug her tighter to my chest. “Your stress is mine too. We need to be able to talk about what’s bothering us. It’s the only way we’ll get through this together.”
She releases me and takes a step back. “Still, I said some pretty shitty things.”
Yes, she did. But I wasn’t nice either.
Lifting a hand to her cheek, I brush the hair out of her face. “Tomorrow, everything will be better.” As the words leave my lips, I will them into existence.
Brianna nods, pushes up on her toes, and kisses my cheek. Then she turns for the door, swipes up her purse, drops the beer inside, and reaches for the dead bolt. “Shouldn’t be long. Don’t wait up.”
Something about those last three words and her tone twists my insides. But I shove it down, remind myself she is the mother of my child and I need to trust her, then promise myself to address it in the morning.
“Be safe, Bri.”
Her dark hair swishes as she peeks over her shoulder, that radiant smile on her lips. “I will.” Then she’s out the door.
Over the next hour, I tidy up the mess she made throughout the apartment. I turn off the light in the living room and kitchen but leave the hood light over the stove on.
When my head hits the pillow, the weight of the evening crashes down on me hard. But I don’t mull over it. Instead, I tell myself we will clear things up tomorrow. One more sleep, then Brianna and I will sort out the future.
With that final thought, I let go of my worries and pass out.
***
Sunlight peeks through the blinds as I wake the next morning.
I tilt my head left then right, cracking my neck. Twist in place, waking my muscles. Stretch an arm and find the spot next to me in bed empty and cold.
After last night, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if Brianna slept on the couch. When things get heated or she stays out past midnight, her crashing on the couch isn’t abnormal.
Tonight will be different. Once we air our concerns and come up with a resolution, we will start anew.
Pulling back the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and sit up. As it does every morning, my gaze automatically goes to Tucker’s bed.
Empty.
I glance at the alarm clock—a little after eight. Usually I’m up with him around seven, but I must’ve been so exhausted that I slept through his morning routine of waking me up. He’s probably on the couch with Brianna, watching his favorite show on the tablet.
After I use the bathroom and brush my teeth, I slip on a pair of sweatpants and head for the living room.
“Who wants panca—” The word dies on my tongue as I enter an empty, still tidy living room. “Bri? Tucker?”
No response. No sound. Nothing.
“Fuck!”
I race back into the bedroom, grab my phone off the charger, and open my text history with Brianna. Tapping on her picture, I glance down to see her location, but there’s no map. My pulse whooshes in my ears as I scroll down, thinking maybe my phone updated and the map moved.
But there is nothing.
Closing the contact info, I type out a message and hit send.
Me: Did you take T out for breakfast without me? lol
Red flag one: I can’t see Brianna’s location.
Red flag two: the text bubble is green instead of blue.
Red flag three: there’s no indication the message has been delivered like usual.
This is not happening.
I tap on her profile picture again, tap the phone icon, and bounce in place as it rings in my ear. The call connects.
“We’re sorry, the person you are trying to reach is no longer reachable at this number. Please try again later.”
No, no, no.
“Where the fuck are you, Bri?” I all but yell as I storm to the bedroom and open the blinds.
I dash to the closet, my eyes immediately dropping to the floor. Tucker’s three pairs of shoes are missing. The small supply of diapers we keep while potty training him is gone. My gaze drifts up to the hangers, several of Brianna’s empty.
How the hell did I not hear her emptying the closet?
My limbs start to shake. My vision blurs. White noise fills my ears as I gasp for air that won’t seem to come.
I bolt for the dresser and open the drawers reserved for Tucker. Empty.
Pressing the heal of my palm to the center of my chest, a sob rips from my throat. Sharp pain ricochets through my legs as my knees smack the floor.
“What d-did you do, Bri?”
Hands trembling, I tap the phone icon, dial the number no one ever wants to call and lift the phone to my ear.
“9-1-1, this is a recorded line. Please state your emergency.”
I inhale a shaky breath as tears roll down my cheeks. “My son has been taken.”
One
Kaya
Present
The end of the school year is always the hardest yet most rewarding time. Farewell hugs go on for days. So do the teary eyes and choked-up words. But when the kids share their gratitude at having me in their lives, incomparable joy fills my soul.
Those small sparks of appreciation remind me of why I chose this career path. To help guide children when they feel lost or out of place. To listen to their happiness and heartache, especially when they feel no one else cares. To give them a voice when they often feel silenced.
Constantly bombarded with expectations while trying to figure out who you are, it’s hard to be a kid. Add in the ever-changing influences online, peer pressure, trends, and feeling the need to grow up years ahead of your time, it’s a wonder why more kids haven’t totally lost it yet.
Thankfully, I get to be one of their sounding boards. A safe space. An adult they can share their feelings and opinions with and not feel judged, forgotten, or degraded when they leave my office. If anything, I teach them it’s okay to feel the way they do. It’s okay to be upset or angry or frustrated. What matters most is how they channel and release their emotions.
I may not be the best behavioral specialist in Washington, but I am the best in Stone Bay. A hallmark I wear with pride.
A couple half-packed boxes sit on the credenza behind my desk. Colorful pictures in crayon, marker, pen, and colored pencil stowed carefully. Thank-you letters in tidy and messy scrawl folded neatly and stashed in an envelope. A thick stack of photos with countless smiles and bright eyes.
Although my office will be the same next school year, I like to pack up special mementos from the current year and take them home. Add them to the scrapbook I started last summer after my first year in this role. Small tokens that make me smile and drive my love for helping children be their best selves.
A muffled buzz distracts me from my task. I open my desk drawer, pull out my phone, and tap on the text notification.
Clarissa: drinks later?
I smile down at the screen as I type out a response.
Me: Count me in. What’s the occasion?
Clarissa: is that a serious question?
Light laughter spills from my lips, a gray bubble dancing on the screen as she continues to type.
Clarissa: I survived another year of teenage angst, being told I have no idea what I’m talking about because I’m old, and being told I’d be hot if I knew how to take care of myself. I’m still in my 20s. I am NOT old.
I laugh harder, grateful I’m not on the high school campus with Clarissa right now. Being the only person in my field in the Stone Bay school system, my time is split between the elementary campus and the middle and high school campuses, which are side by side with the shared administration offices between them.
Me: You are not old. And I told you, don’t let the kids get to you.
Clarissa: I know… *insert dramatic eye roll with a huff*
Ringing through the room pulls me out of my conversation with Clarissa.
I press the speaker button on my desk phone. “This is Kaya.”
“Hi, Kaya. It’s Mia.”
“Hey, Mia. What can I help you with?”
A heavy sigh echoes through the line. “I’m sending a student your way. Tucker Calhoun. He’s been acting out most of the year, but I’ve managed to redirect the behavior. Today, no such luck. He riled up the class in no time and won’t calm down.”
A pang blooms in my chest. Most children act out for a reason, and it typically stems from a painful source outside the classroom.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Mia. I’ll talk with him and hopefully figure out what’s going on.”
“He’s a good kid. Just has some pent-up frustrations.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of what we talk about.”
“Thanks, Kaya.”
The line disconnects.
I type out a quick text to Clarissa before I stow my phone back in my desk.
Me: Duty calls. When and where for drinks?
A knock sounds on my open door, and I look up to see an office assistant with who I assume is Tucker.
Genuine smile on my face, I step around my desk and toward the door. “Are you Tucker?”
Arms crossed over his chest, he screws his lips tightly and stares at the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence or my question, but I don’t take it personally. Anger radiates off his aura like thick fog.
I glance at the office assistant. “I’ll take it from here, Enola. Thank you.”
They smile and nod, then head back to the front desk.
“Come in, Tucker.” I gesture to the guest chairs near my desk. “Have a seat.”
Tucker stomps across my office and plops down in one of the chairs, an exaggerated huff leaving his lips.
Closing the door, I cross the room and take a seat in the guest chair next to Tucker, twisting so I’m angled in his direction. Silence stretches out between us, a quiet I don’t disrupt.
Both my position in the room and my reticence serve a purpose. Sitting next to Tucker as opposed to the other side of my desk, I appear less an authority figure and more a friend. Remaining quiet for a couple minutes gives him a moment to collect himself and his thoughts.
He undoubtedly thinks he was sent here to be punished for his behavior in class. But I’m not here to discipline. My job is to find the root cause of his troubles, talk him through it, share the possible ramifications, and guide him on what to do when he feels this way in the future.
I extend a hand toward Tucker. “Don’t think we’ve met, Tucker. I’m Ms. Imala, the school behavioral specialist. But my students call me Kaya.”
His eyes flit to my proffered hand, then go back to staring at the desk.
I lace my fingers and rest my hands in my lap. “Ms. Cambridge tells me you’ve been upset. Do you want to share what’s bothering you? Whatever we talk about in here stays between you and me.”
As I say the last part, Tucker’s shoulders relax a little and his expression softens. Progress.
“When I was your age, kids in my class picked on me.”
With a slight tilt of his head, he peeks up at me, curiosity in his eyes.
I nod. “It’s true. Because I didn’t look like most of the girls in my class, they called me names and teased me about my heritage. They spoke to and about me with no regard to how it’d make me feel.” I pause and let my words sink in a moment. “Words hurt people. Sometimes worse than cuts.”
Throughout most of my childhood, many of my peers made me feel less than, unattractive, incapable, and as if I didn’t belong. Being the center of their censure, abhorrence, or discrimination came too easy for some of my classmates. What’s worse is they felt no shame, guilt, or remorse over the horrid names they called me or pranks they pulled at my expense.
I am not the only Native American my age or in my generation in Stone Bay, but there are fewer of us in town than when the Imalas journeyed here more than a hundred years ago and connected with the local Indigenous, the Stonewater tribe. As our numbers have dwindled over the generations, more of our history and culture have gotten lost, dismissed, or ignored.
My family strives to keep our ancestors’ memories alive. We share our stories, pass them down to each generation, and learn the suppressed and forgotten ways of our people. We take pride in who we are and where we come from.
When a student enters my office, their struggles may be unique and slight compared to others, but they are still valid. Each person deserves the opportunity to be heard, seen, and supported. I do everything within my power to provide this to my students.
Tucker’s brows scrunch together then relax.
“When those kids said mean things about me, it made me so angry. I wanted to yell and hit something.” I lean a little closer to Tucker and lower my voice. “I wanted to hit them.”
This garners his attention. Wide hazel eyes stare up at me with dozens of questions. “Did you?”
An empathetic smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I sit back and slowly shake my head. “No, I didn’t hit them. When I got home from school, my anaanatsiaq felt my sadness and anger.”
“What’s an anaa—”
I cut off his fumbled pronunciation with a smile. “Anaanatsiaq,” I repeat. “It means grandmother.”
Tucker’s brows and lips twitch. He’s likely repeating the word in his head. Trying to master the speech pattern.
It isn’t often I use Inuktitut with people who don’t speak the language. But like most dialects, if you don’t speak them regularly, you start to forget. Considering the Inuit side of my family migrated to Stone Bay, some of the language and traditions have slipped away over the generations. Ahnah—my anaanatsiaq—works tirelessly to keep who we are and what we do know alive.
“How did she feel your anger?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Some people are born empaths. They just know how other people feel.”
Eyes lifting to mine, Tucker tilts his head and narrows his gaze. “Are you an empath?”
The corners of my lips turn up as I shake my head. “No. I have my own gift.”
His fingers wring the bottom hem of his shirt. “You do?”
“Yes. I’ve always been good at helping other people find peace when they’re upset.”
“Oh.” He tucks his chin to his chest and studies his fumbling fingers in his lap.
“Would you like to tell me what made you upset earlier?”
He clutches one hand with the other, squeezing until his knuckles blanch. “I don’t snitch.”
Interesting. Maybe he was a part of something and has since been rejected, hence his outbursts.
“Remember, Tucker, whatever you share with me stays between us. I promise.”
Lifting his chin, he studies my expression with narrowed eyes. Silence hovers around us as he reads the lines of my face, searching for any indication of deceit. He isn’t convinced I’ll keep my word, and it hurts my heart someone so young feels such a high level of distrust.
“Tucker, my job is to help you navigate your feelings in a healthy way. Unless someone is hurting you or the other way around, I won’t share our conversation with your teacher or family.”
“Really?” So much hope surrounds the single word.
My chest aches as I nod and draw an X over my heart. “Swear.”
Once more, he tucks his chin to his chest. Inhales a deep, shaky breath as his hands twist in his lap. “Kids in my class are saying mean things to me.”
The pang in my chest intensifies as I soften my tone. “I’m sorry that’s happening. I bet it hurts.”
Back slumped and shoulders caved, he nods and stays quiet.
“Do you want to share the mean things they’re saying?”
His chin trembles a moment before he sniffles then drags the back of his hand across his nose. Tucker shrugs then mumbles, “Stuff about my mom and dad, and me.”
I don’t make a point to learn everything about all the students enrolled at the elementary, middle, and high school. It’d take weeks, if not months. Typically, I dive into their file and homelife after they visit my office or a teacher or administrator brings up their name.
This is the first time I’ve seen or heard anything about Tucker, so I have no context on his history.
“Do you want to tell me the mean things they’re saying about you and your parents?”
An audible huff fills the room. “Kenny called my mom a bad word. Said she doesn’t love me anymore.”
Kenny is a little jerk.
“It must’ve hurt a lot when he said those things.” I reach over and touch Tucker’s shoulder a moment. “But Kenny doesn’t know what your mom feels.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Tucker mutters.
My brows bend in confusion. “Why would you say that?”
His lips turn down at the corners as he tucks his chin closer to his chest. “Before I was here, I lived with my mom. We lived in a bunch of places, but the last had lots of noise and scary people.” He wrings his shirt until his knuckles blanch. “I didn’t know my dad until two Christmases ago. He says him, me, and my mom all lived together until I was almost two, but I don’t remember that.”
A twist of pain settles beneath my diaphragm as emotion swells in my throat. I take a slow, steadying breath as I shove aside the gut instinct to wrap him in comfort. Swallowing, I say, “A lot of parents don’t live together. Doesn’t mean they don’t love their child.”
“What if they’re never home? What does that mean?”
Another crack lines my heart. “Was your mom away a lot?”
Tucker nibbles on his lips and shrugs. “She was always with one of her boyfriends.”
“At home or not?”
“Sometimes at home. Sometimes I didn’t see her for two days.”
My stomach cramps as my skin heats with anger. Quietly as possible, I inhale for a count of three and exhale just as long, trying to remain calm. It takes quite a bit to light a fire in my veins. In most cases, it’s when a child is mistreated by an adult.
“Is it better with your dad?” Please say yes.
“I guess.” He sniffles as a forlorn look consumes his expression. “He works a bunch.”
“When you’re not at school and your dad has to work, what do you do?” Please tell me you’re not home alone for several hours. The last thing Tucker needs is to go from one irresponsible parent to another.
A hint of his sadness is replaced with reverence. “I stay with Grandma Angel, Papa RJ, GG Grace, or Auntie Abi.”
“GG?”
“She’s my great-grandma.”
As part of the Seven—the Stone Bay registered founding families—I am familiar with some of the more prominent families in town. Although the Calhouns aren’t part of the Seven, they have made a name for themselves over the years. They’ve also become good at keeping tidbits about their family—Tucker and his mother—out of the limelight.
I know of the Calhouns, but I don’t know them.
“Well, I’m glad you have people who love you here,” I say with heartfelt honesty.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I don’t know your dad, but I bet he works hard so you can have everything you need.” I reach out and touch his shoulder again. “It’s okay to tell him what you want.” My hand falls back into my lap. “Some parents don’t realize they’re not giving you what you need. Lots of kids want toys and other fun stuff. But some kids want a day with their mom or dad. Both are okay to ask for.”
His chin wobbles. “What if he says no?”
My heart squeezes at his question. “What if he says yes?” I counter.
Tucker turns in his seat and looks up at me, his hazel eyes glassy but brighter. “I like you, Miss Kaya.”
“I like you, too, Tucker.”
His entire face scrunches to the middle. “What about Kenny and the other mean kids?”
After hearing of this group of cruel fourth graders, I plan to have a conversation with the staff. Obviously, we can’t be in all places at all times, but it is our job to make sure situations such as this don’t fester and become worse. Left unchecked, kids like Kenny eventually switch from using words to hurt others to inflicting physical harm with their fists.
I refuse to let that happen on my watch.
“Although it’s hard, you have to ignore his mean words. Especially the bad ones.” I rise from my seat and move around my desk. “Most bullies have their own sadness. To keep their hurt hidden, they pick on other people. They pass it on so no one sees their pain.” I open one of my desk drawers and sift through the small open box inside. “Do you have a favorite thing to do? Or a favorite color?”
“I like it when I get to help my dad cook. He got me a bright-red apron with my name on the front.”
“Red like this?” I hold up a small piece of tumbled garnet.
Tucker shakes his head.
I riffle through the box again and stop on a Matchbox fire truck with a moving ladder on top. Scooping it up, I show it to Tucker. “How about fire-truck red?”
“Whoa!” He wiggles out of his chair and pins himself to the front of my desk, his eyes the brightest I’ve seen them since he entered my office. “I love fire trucks.”
Closing the drawer, I move back to the other side of the desk. “Fire trucks are pretty cool. But this one”—I hold it between us in my open palm—“is special.”
“It is?”
“Yes. It was made just for you.”
His brows tug together in confusion. “But it’s like all the other ones in the store.”
“True,” I agree. “Want to know why it’s different?”
Tucker nods rapidly.
“I have a box of special items I save in my desk. When I’m in a store, sometimes small items call out to me.”
“They talk to you?” he asks in wonderment, his eyes widening.
“Not like how people talk. It’s more of a feeling.” I lay a hand over my belly. “The items let me know that one day soon, someone I see will need them.” I hold the fire truck closer to Tucker. “When I was shopping two days ago, this fire truck called out. It knew I’d need to give it to you.”
Tucker stares at the fire truck, speechless.
“I want you to have it, Tucker. Every morning, I want you to hold it in your hand and say, ‘Today will be a good day.’ Can you do that for me?”
Gingerly, he reaches for and takes the fire truck from my palm. “Yes.”
“Good. In the afternoon or evening, I want you to do something different. It sounds funny, but I want you to tell your fire truck about your day. The good things that happened and the stuff that upset you. This fire truck will keep all your secrets safe.”
“Can I play with it?”
“Only after you do those two things, but not in school. You can carry it in your backpack, but it’s best to only have it out at home.” I tap the fire truck in his palm. “Special secret keeper.”
He stares at the toy that is now a way to release his frustrations. “The most special secret keeper,” he whispers before he shoves it in his pocket. “Thank you, Miss Kaya.”
“You’re welcome, Tucker. We should get you back to class.” I cross the office and open the door. “Don’t tell anyone else, but I think the fourth graders are getting a pizza party for lunch.”
“Yes,” he hisses then fist-pumps the air.
When we reach the front, I ask Enola to escort Tucker back to class. Once they are out the door, I audibly inhale.
Such a wonderful little boy. If only he got the attention and affection he so desperately craves.
***
Clarissa clinks her wineglass with mine. “Cheers to three more days of endless teenage hormones.”
I laugh, and the sound blends with the pub music. “So you know, I’m not drinking every night this week.”
Clarissa sticks out her tongue. “You’re no fun.”
“Maybe. But at least I won’t be on death’s door when one of those teenagers comes into my office tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Clarissa brings her glass to her lips and drinks a healthy sip. Then her body language shifts. She leans forward and shows a touch more cleavage.
Great.
I follow her line of sight across Dalton’s Pub to see who she is making eyes at. A man with salt-and-pepper hair sits on a stool at the end of the bar. Broad shoulders and a tall frame, he is dressed in a sharp, dark-colored suit. No tie around his neck, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He appears to be alone, nursing a pint.
Clarissa has him in her sights, but he has yet to notice her.
I wave a hand in front of her face. “Want me to leave so you can flirt with Mr. Anonymous?”
“Not yet.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Joking, Kaya.” Clarissa rests a hand over mine on the table. “Can’t help but admire a beautiful man.” She arches a brow. “What about you?”
Knowing exactly where this is headed, I play stupid. “What about me?”
“Anyone catch your attention recently?”
“You already know the answer.”
Clarissa downs the rest of her wine, then holds the glass up until the bartender nods. “You need to date more. I worry about you.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you don’t.”
She spins the stem of the glass between her fingers. “All the heavy stuff we deal with, it’s important to take care of ourselves. And not just our mental health, but also our sexual health.”
As the last words leave her lips, a full glass of wine is deposited on the table.
My face flames with embarrassment. My skin undoubtedly sunburn red. Once we’re alone, I give her a pointed stare. “Can we please not talk about my sex life in public. Ever.” My plea is more a statement than a question.
“Fine,” she says with faux exaggeration. “But you’re too young to become a recluse with hundreds of porcelain statues you talk to and call your friends.”
“I have plenty of actual people to talk to, so no need to worry.” I take a small sip of my wine. “Plus, I’ve told you, right now, work and family are my priorities. When I have a few more years of work under my belt, I may consider a romantic relationship.”
“But sex…” The word comes out a mile long. “How can you live without sex?”
Chuckling, I drop my gaze to the table and shake my head. “Believe it or not, it’s possible.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s called focus.”
“You’re so weird sometimes.”
I lift my chin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Clarissa drinks half of her second glass before I get through half of my first. Her gaze flits between me and the guy at the bar. And if I’m honest, all this talk of relationships has killed my barely-there buzz.
When she finishes her second glass, I slide mine in her direction. “Here. Drink mine and go meet Mr. Anonymous.”
“But I want to spend more time with you,” she whines playfully.
“I love you, Rissa. But I need to call it a night.” I nudge my head toward the guy at the bar. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll make your night much better.”
“Are you sure?”
I shoulder my purse and slide off my stool. “Absolutely.”
Clarissa hops off her seat and wraps her arms around my neck. “Love you.”
I laugh at her tipsy sentiment. “Love you, too. Get home safe, okay?”
She swipes up the wineglass. “I will.”
I kiss her on the cheek and head for the door. Before I exit, I peek over to the man at the bar and see a brilliant smile on his face. When my gaze shifts to Clarissa, her expression mirrors his.
One day, I’ll smile at someone like that. One day, I will find love. But not yet. Not until I’m ready.
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