Page 44 of Peaches & Pistols

“How about at the Hayes’s?” Izzy asks from across the room, softly rubbing her husband’s back. Reid and James have taken to examining specks of dust in the air, and shadows on the walls, shoulders bowing heavy from the weight of their grief.

Delilah sighs heavily, sadness painting her face. “It was okay. Elliott ate well, but went to bed early, and Nora never came back out to sit with us. Quincy doesn’t look good. She’s struggling, but I don’t know how to help her. Connor says all we can do is be there if she ever wants to lean on us. She left when we did, and I could tell she was trying to hide her tears from us. I can’t fathom how difficult it must be for her to celebrate today without him.”

Surprising us all, Mia moves to comfort Delilah, taking her hand and interlacing their fingers.

“Grief isn’t logical. It isn’t linear or predictable. Some days it weighs so heavy on your chest you can’t breathe. Other days it floats like a fog in the back of your mind,” Mia says softly, every set of eyes trained on her.

“I lost my sister”—Mia looks between Reid and James, giving them each a tight smile—“and it took a lot of years before I felt semi-normal celebrating holidays and life events without her. You’re all very lucky to have each other.”

Her voice grows tight holding back her emotions. She releases Delilah and turns into me, a breath away from my chest, whispering, “Can we please leave?”

I’m gathering kids, food, and belongings the second after she asks. I never want Mia to be uncomfortable. Somehow, I’ve made it my job to take care of her, and I take my job dead serious.

Hugs are exchanged in a circle with some repeats. Just as we’re loading into my truck, Delilah pulls Mia to the side. I don’t mean to eavesdrop—that’s a lie, I need to know anything to do with Mia.

“The offer still stands, okay?” Delilah whispers. Mia nods away from her and buckles herself in the truck, closing the door on the night air.

The girls are out cold as soon as the truck rumbles down the dirt road. Mia and I sit in silence for a mile or two before I can’t take it anymore.

“What offer was Delilah talking about?” I ask.

Mia’s cheeks color. I can see the flush even in the dimly lit truck cab.

“Equine therapy,” is all she says, and I don’t pry. People seek help when they’re ready to be helped.

Maybe someday, she’ll come to me when she needs help. And I’ll be there to give her anything she needs.

15

Never thought this is where I’d be at this phase of my life. Late thirties, pining after a girl a decade-and-change younger than me like a fucking pervert.

I leave for work before everyone wakes up for several reasons. Handle my responsibilities at the ranch. Conduct business with folks in the Central or Eastern time zones. Also, well, there isn’t any other reasons than the one I don’t want to admit.

On the rare occasion I’m still at the apartment when Mia wakes up, I’m dumbstruck by how impossibly gorgeous she is first thing in the morning. Golden waves piled into a top knot, exposing her delicate features she so often hides behind her hair. Tendrils of gold escape the messy bun, framing her face like a work of art.

Her eyes are heavy with sleep, and her smiles are slow and comfortable, as if her anxiety hasn’t kicked in for the day.

The problem is the threadbare T-shirts she wears to sleep in. They’re several sizes too large for her and based on the faded screenprint on many of them, they’re men’s shirts.

What man gave them to her is the million-dollar question that plagues me every time I see her in one. She doesn’t talk about her parents, maybe her father’s? I doubt she wasted precious backpack space on her husband’s clothes during her prison escape.

So, where did they come from? She should be wearing my shirts to bed.

Where the hell did that come from?

The T-shirts hang to her upper thighs, and she wears cotton shorts that peek out when she sits down. What if she doesn’t sleep in the shorts but puts them on for modesty? Just her naked body beneath that thin layer of fabric, maybe no panties? Stop. See, there’s the pervert rearing his ugly head.

With her hair up in the mornings, the T-shirts do nothing to hide what’s underneath. The whisper of cotton molds against her every curve, daring me to look, my dick pleading with me not to look away.

It only took a time or two seeing her nipples poking through to set my alarm clock a half hour earlier and get out of the house before she wakes up.

But, today, in an unprecedented move, I’ve closed the hardware store to play nurse.

Gotta love elementary school for being a festering cesspool of bacteria and viruses. It got significantly better once Harper was old enough to stop putting everything in her mouth, sharing drinks with her friends, and having better hand hygiene.

With a kindergartener in the house, we’re back in an endless rotation of sicknesses. This time, it hit all three girls. No idea how it skipped me, but I’m not complaining.

Mia cared for the girls for the first two days, but then fell ill herself, and I couldn’t in my right mind leave them here.