Amos shifts his weight between his feet, unable to stay still for long.
"Good, I think. He's behind in reading, so we're working on that every night. But he's where he should be in math."
"Is he making any friends?"
Amos frowns. "He doesn't talk about anybody. And whenever I ask him, he closes up."
I've reassured Amos a hundred times that it's going to take time, so I don't say it again.
"I spoke to his old teacher." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "She said he was quiet and thoughtful."
"So it's not just the trauma that's keeping him quiet."
Although there's nothing quiet about the boy currently chasing Kyra down the slide. I'm happy they feel relaxed around each other.
"He's making good progress with the therapist," Amos says. "She's using art therapy. I thought it sounded a bit... hippy."
I smile at his choice of words. "Art therapy can be great for children," I reassure him. "They don't always have the words totalk about their feelings. It's amazing what they can express with a few colors."
"How long do you think it will take?"
Amos wants a solution. He's a man who solves problems. It's not the first time he's asked this question.
"It takes as long as it takes. Some kids are able to work through their trauma; others will have it follow them around their entire lives."
Amos wraps his arms around himself. "Shit. I hope that's not the case for this little guy."
The genuine concern he has for Sam is heartbreaking. I put my hand on his arm.
"He's got a great support network now. I'm sure he'll be fine."
Amos glances at my hand and then my lips. His gaze drags to my eyes, and our gazes lock. It's the most contact we've had since that night he made me come undone, and the reaction is the same one I felt then. Even through the layers of my fall coat, my skin prickles and a wave of heat courses through my body.
I snatch my hand away and look toward the fort. There's danger in being friends with Amos.
"How's the cooking going?" I change the subject to safer territory.
"I made spaghetti Bolognese last night," he says proudly.
"You've really gotten into this guardian thing, haven't you?"
He shrugs as if it's no big deal. "When I commit to something, Alana, I go all in."
The way he looks at me when he says it makes me think he's not just talking about the cooking class. I swallow hard and look up just in time to see Kyra scoot down the slide.
On days like this, when we're hanging out, talking comfortably and watching the kids play, it's easy to imagine what a life with Amos would be like. And there's a yearning inside me that I've never felt before.
Previously, it's been easy to deny myself male companionship and to put the kids first. But now I realize it was just because I hadn't met anyone I really wanted. Denying myself Amos is the hardest thing I've ever done.
Amos grabs a container out of his bag, and before he's got it open the kids are running over.
"Can I have a cookie?" Kyra's eyes go wide at the chocolate chip cookies in Amos's container.
"Did you make those?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "This is all Mom. I can cook Bolognese, but baking? No. I'm not even going to attempt it."
I nod to Kyra, and she snatches a cookie from the container. Sam follows her over, and his face tightens as he reaches us. The carefree expression of a few moments ago is replaced by a cautious look.
