I look between the three of them. They're good, reliable men who know how to keep their mouths shut and handle pressure without falling apart. Of course I want them.
"Dead serious," I tell him. "You boys stay out of trouble, finish your contracts clean, and call me when you're free. By then, maybe we'll have enough work to keep everybody busy."
Torres grins. "Private security, huh? You gonna make us wear suits?"
"Hell no."
Mick laughs under his breath. "Good. I look terrible in a tie."
"You look terrible in general," Dawson shoots back.
They start jawing at each other the same way they always do, and I find myself smiling again. I'm going to miss this more than I thought.
Dawson looks back at me after a second. "For real, though, Gunny. I appreciate everything."
I nod and shake his extended hand. "Just do your jobs and keep each other alive. That's all I ever wanted out of you."
They straighten a little at that before Dawson throws one last salute over his shoulder and I return it automatically.
Then I'm alone again as they run off to get back to whatever it is they're supposed to be doing. I hook my thumbs through my belt and stare out across the yard. For thirteen years, this place decided when I woke up, where I went, what I wore, and who stood beside me.
Now I get to choose all of that for myself.
Life's waiting out there, whether I'm ready for it or not.
Whatever comes next, I'm going to meet it head-on.
1
OLIVIA
Istand on the front porch in my faded blue house robe as steam curls up from my coffee mug and I take another slow sip, watching the quiet street. The neighborhood is just waking up—lawn sprinklers ticking on, a dog barking two houses down. I love these calm moments before the day really starts when the sun is over the horizon but no one is making noise yet. For mid-April, it's still chilly this time of day, but warmer weather is coming quickly and I can't wait.
Headlights sweep across the lawn as Derek’s black SUV pulls into the driveway and stops. Ethan hops out of the back seat, backpack slung over one shoulder, his blond hair sticking up in every direction. He’s grinning from ear to ear as he darts away from his father.
“Mom!” He runs straight to me, sneakers slapping the porch steps.
I set the mug on the railing and pull him into a hug, breathing in the smell of his hair—campfire smoke and that cheap body wash Derek buys. “Hey, buddy. Did you have fun?”
“So much fun! Dad took me to the go-kart track and I beat him twice.” Ethan’s voice buzzes with excitement.
Derek climbs out of the driver’s side with sunglasses on top of his head even though the sun's barely up. He walks around the SUV carrying Ethan’s duffel bag and a new remote-control truck still in its box. It brings a scowl to my face I know is there but can't actively hide. I hate how he showers Ethan with expensive gifts all the time trying to be the "fun" parent. He knows damn well that on my pay, I can't compete with him.
I keep my arm around Ethan’s shoulders. “Go inside and put your stuff in your room, okay? I’ll make pancakes in a minute.”
Ethan grabs the duffel from his dad and dashes past me into the house, the screen door banging shut behind him. But Derek doesn’t move toward the porch. He stands by the SUV as I step down and meet him halfway in the driveway, arms crossed over my robe.
I've never enjoyed these moments. Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in him. But for Ethan's sake we have to get along, at least for these moments where we're forced to interact in front of him.
“You let him ride his bike without knee pads again,” Derek says, quietly so Ethan won’t hear. He yanks his sunglasses off. “He’s got fresh bruises all over both knees. Looks like he crashed hard.”
“He did crash. On the sidewalk right in front of the house. Kids fall, Derek. It happens.”
“It happens because you’re not paying attention. He needs supervision, Olivia. Not just thrown outside with a helmet anda 'good luck'.” His tone sharpens. “I’m not being unreasonable. I’m just suggesting that you could pay more attention."
I feel my shoulders tighten. “You’re being dramatic. He wore his helmet. He had a blast. And he’s eight, not a toddler. You can’t bubble-wrap him every second.” He's infuriating. He's been doing this to me for three years, ever since that judge granted me full custody because of his drinking. Now he's all sober and cleaned up—or he claims to be—and demands more time with Ethan, and I know better. I won't let my child be influenced by him any more than I am forced to.
Derek shakes his head with a familiar look of disappointment sliding across his face. “This is exactly why the visitation schedule needs adjusting. You’re too lax. He comes back bruised, tired, and talking about how you let him stay up all night watching movies.”
