Page 28 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Sandra watches us from the doorway, her expression soft but sharp, evidently clocking how well Evan is settling with me.

“He doesn’t hand out blocks to just anyone,” she says mildly.

Evan nods seriously. “Only people who stay.”

I swallow.

Wayne clears his throat. “Alright, buddy. Shoes on.”

Evan groans dramatically but complies, scooping up his toy and shoving his feet into sneakers with only minor protest.

Sandra hugs him tight. “I’ll see you tomorrow, honey, okay?”

“Okay, Grandma.”

She squeezes him once more, then looks at me. “You’re welcome to visit anytime, June. Even if it’s just for coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning thank you for seeing me as a person, even if I don’t say it out loud.

Mercifully, the drive back is louder.

Evan fills the space with chatter, questions, and commentary on dinosaurs and bridges and whether I think a T. rex could fit in the garage. Wayne answers patiently, indulgently, and every time he laughs, it loosens my chest.

By the time we pull into Wayne’s driveway, my nerves have settled a bit. I’m still fragile but steadier now.

The house is modest, practical, like everything in Wayne’s life seems to be.

Inside, Wayne shows me where Evan keeps his shoes, where backpacks go, where the snacks live. Evan trails us, occasionally correcting his dad.

“That’s my cup,” he says when Wayne gestures to a shelf.

“I know,” Wayne replies dryly. “You tell me every day.”

He shows me my room last.

“This is yours, June,” he says, opening the door.

It’s small but bright. Clean. The bed neatly made, a dresser against the wall, a window that looks out over the trees. Nothing fancy. Nothing temporary either.

Evan peeks in behind me. “Are you going to sleep here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says again, with a little smile this time.

Wayne closes the door gently and gestures toward the kitchen. “Let’s go over the schedule.”

He pulls a folded sheet of paper from a drawer and lays it on the counter, smoothing it flat like he wants it to be clear.

“You’ll work weekdays,” he says. “Monday through Friday. Mornings through late afternoon. Evan’s in preschool three days a week, so those afternoons are lighter. Activities, errands, whatever works.”

I nod, eyes tracking the page.

“You’ll have evenings off,” he continues. “My mom takes him a couple of nights a week, and I handle bedtime when I’m back on time. Weekends are yours unless we talk ahead of time.”

Weekends off.

What will I do with all my free time in a town I don’t know? That’s scary for someone like me. It’s independence I’m not sure I can hack. The school was a full-time job, and weekends were full of marking and planning—there wasn’t a moment to spare.