Page 35 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

“No. I’m not. But we don’t know the future, and we need a plan.”

Again, Jet shrugged. “There’s Auntie Pat.” He frowned. “But she’s kind of a nomad.”

“Kind of.”

“Lucky’s got a lot going on here. He’s not going anyplace.”

“He does seem pretty settled.”

“Tris is kinda cool.” He hitched a shoulder. “For a grown-up. Rod’s all right.”

The fact Jet thought of Tris as a grown-up only emphasised how very young he actually was, despite how hard he tried to seem fully grown. Not that Tris wasn’t an adult. He was almost as old as Steven, after all. But he still seemed so very young to Myles.

“So this isn’t the worst place ever, and these aren’t the worst people you’ve met in your life.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I’ll talk to Lucky and Kreed,” Myles said, more to himself. “We need a plan.”

A warm brush of a breeze fluttered across his cheek, ruffled his hair in almost the exact way Natalie used to fluff his waves before he’d started keeping it military short.

He smiled to himself. Maybe he’d wait a bit and not shave it so short for a while. See how it felt.

Across the room, Jet nodded but didn’t say anything. At least he wasn’t completely averse to the idea of giving Lucky, Kreed and the rest some sort of family-adjacent status.

They watched each other through the dimness while the house settled around them.

“I’m going to bed now,” Jet finally said. “Can you… not go back down any more tonight?”

“Sure.” He was here now, and his hip ached from the earlier exertion, making the thought of hobbling down the stairs unpleasant. It cost him nothing to give Jet the answer he would never admit he wanted, though, without making it about anything else.

“Thanks.” Jet flashed him a stiff smile, then flopped onto his back, yanked his covers up and turned out his lamp again. “Night, Uncle My-my.”

Myles snorted. “Night, Jet.”

It might not be the hug-it-out moment Natalie would have wanted for them, but it was something. A start. He hoped they’d get to the hugging not fuelled by anger some day.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Myles’s metal spoon clanked softly against the side of his coffee cup as he stirred it, regretful that the coffee—what there was of it—was already cold. Jet scrolled through his phone, oblivious to the bacon left on his plate, and Shelly busied herself making motes of syrup between soggy masses of pancakes.

“You shouldn’t play with your food,” Myles said, though he made no move to stop her. His attention kept wandering to the coffee pot sitting on the pass-through counter on the other side of the room and he weighed his desire for more with the ache in his hip.

Shelly set her fork on the plate, shoved it away, and leaned both elbows on the table. Myles was about to tell her to sit up straight, but then she frowned.

“Why does that man always swing in the morning?”

“What man?” Myles glanced where she pointed, out the front window to the porch of the bookstore across the street.

“He looks sad,” Shelly said.

“Does he?” Myles studied him. White-blond hair fell across his forehead in a long sweep, a longer, shaggier version of the top-heavy cut Jet favoured. One of the long-fingered pale hands wrapped around a huge mug sported the bandages Myles had applied the evening before, and the one foot not tucked under him poked at the floorboards just often enough to keep the swing in motion. He stared out at the street, though from where he sat, it was difficult for Myles to make out an expression.

“He never smiles,” Shelly said. “Maybe he needs pie.”

“Pie?” Myles reverted his attention to his niece. “Why would he need pie?”

“Pie always makes people smile. I bet he has a nice smile.”