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Seeing my brother-in-law is fucking torture. Even after all these years.
He’s never said anything to me, no deep tearful conversations. There’s nothing but warmth behind his smile. But all the shit that goes unsaid?
That shows up in subtle movements and awkward glances when he thinks my back is turned.
I have to believe he blames me for dragging out Brittany’s death, for letting her waste away to papery flesh stretched over frail bones, a living ghost.
Why shouldn’t he blame me as much as I blame myself?
Call it collateral damage.
The kind that poisons a relationship when someone passes, rather than bringing them together.
Fuck it.
Some things can’t be fixed in life, and this is one of them. And on the dark, restless nights like the one that just passed, when I hold up a mirror to my soul, I know the truth.
Hank should hate me.
I don’t blame him for it.
So I try to forget the last five strained years of our life as I walk to the center of the driveway where he’s stopped his old, slightly battered blue-and-white Dodge. The windows are already down.
“Thanks for coming and taking them today, Hank. I should be back by early evening.”
“No problem, man. I have a new colt I’ve been wanting them to see.” His brown eyes, as dark as Brittany’s had been, twinkle as he opens the door. “Oh, and Babe had her pups! Nice big litter, all six of them healthy and barking up a storm.” He laughs before leveling me a look. “Take that as fair warning. You’re gonna hear a lot of puppy begging from the duo real soon.”
“Great,” I mumble. More begging from the girls for an animal.
They don’t get it.
They’re too young to understand. It’s not just about the responsibility...I can’t get them an animal and risk having it die.
After Brittany, after growing up without a mother, I can’t have them experiencing that shit again.
Another crippling, unexpected, soul-stealing visit from the Reaper.
Another loss they can’t get back.
“Uncle Hank! Uncle Haaaank!”
I smile. They always shout his name twice as they come flying out of the house. Two at a time, just like most things that happen around here.
The third person with them is what makes me do a double take.
Sawyer and Avery each have a fierce hold on Willow’s arms, pulling her toward Hank.
“You have to meet Willow!” Sawyer chirps. “Uncle Hank, look, here’s our new nanny.”
Hank’s smile grows, but so does the gleam in his eye as he looks at me, one brow raised. I can already feel the punch to my stomach.
“Nanny, huh?” Hank asks.
“Nanny,” I echo dryly. “Had to hire one. Didn’t have much choice with how crazy it’s been around here lately, plus the bar—”
“Come on, man,” he cuts me off. “You don’t owe me no explainin’. There’s nothing wrong with a little hired help, Grady. Or with anything else, you know. Hell, Britt would’ve wanted you to—”
“Not now, Hank,” I snap, more harshly than intended.
His brows arch up.
I can’t deal with this again, here in front of the girls and Willow.
Yeah, he’s told me a hundred times how Brittany would want me to get on with my life, not stay mired in the past.
Let him think that.
Let him tell me everything’s just fine and dandy, and we don’t think about how she died every time our eyes meet.
Fuck.
We both know the truth.
I know what Brittany would’ve wanted, and so does he.
She didn’t want to die.
She wanted to be here, raising her daughters, plus the other kids I’ll never have a chance to make.
She damn sure wouldn’t want me to start over—much less with some random pixie blown in by an ill summer wind, carrying the kind of trouble that could literally swallow up our family alive.
I’m already defying the past, spitting in the face of what my dead wife would’ve wanted.
No ifs, ands, or buts about it, and it sucks.
“Hey, friend. Willow is it?” Hank says merrily as Willow arrives at his truck with a girl still hanging on each arm.
He’s always been a people pleaser.
“You got it!” she answers. “And you must be the infamous Uncle Hank? I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things.”
“Aw, careful what you believe now. These little meerkats exaggerate everything,” he says, using both hands to rub the top of each girl’s head through the window as they laugh.
“I, uh...I wouldn’t do that, Hank,” I tell him. “Summer camp shut down a day early because of head lice.”
Hank throws back his head and roars. “Oh, Grady, Grady...there are days when I don’t know if I should feel sorry for you, or just laugh, because there’s nothing else I can do. Good thing for you little ladies I’m cootie-proof.”
I frown, not sure what he means.
“I don’t know what he thinks lice are, but it has him a little freaked out,” Willow tells Hank under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
