Page 50 of Made for Mayhem

I wrapped my hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth. “Thank you.”

He leaned against the counter across from me, not crowding, but not retreating either.

The kettle clicked, the sound small in the quiet kitchen. We both drank our tea in silence, but the set of Ty’s shoulders told me he still had something he needed to discuss.

His gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted again. Finally, he looked at me.

“You’re staying,” he said. Not a question. Not quite a statement.

“The judge didn’t give me much wiggle room,” I said. “And if the renovations are as extensive as they said, I don’t have the funds to find an apartment while I fix up the place. So, yes, if the offer still stands, I guess I’m staying here for the next six weeks.”

His jaw tightened. “And after that?”

I stared down into the tea, watching the steam rise. “I don’t know yet.”

This time the silence didn’t feel empty. It pressed in, weighted with everything neither of us said.

“I just want what’s best for her,” he whispered.

I nodded. “So do I.”

Six weeks stretched between us, undefined and heavy.

Too long to pretend nothing would change.

Too short to pretend everything wouldn’t.

He nodded once, then drained the rest of his tea and set the mug in the sink.

“Goodnight, Daisy.”

I watched him disappear down the hall, Rowdy padding after him, and stood alone in the kitchen—Junie asleep, grief waiting in the dark, the stars still burning overhead.

Not now.

But soon.

12

Junie was in meltdown mode, the kind reserved for mornings when you had somewhere to be.

I stood in her bedroom doorway, holding what I thought was the right turquoise shirt, but had her stomping around in her pajamas. She still wanted to go to the rink with Beckett, and to make that happen before I left for work, we needed to leave soon.

She scrunched her face up, cheeks blotchy, hair sticking out in twelve directions. “That’s not the one,” she wailed. “I wanted the turquoise shirt with the hearts on it. That one’s plain!”

“They look the same,” I said, then immediately regretted it.

She flopped backward on the bed with all the drama her eight-year-old body could muster. “They’re not the same!”

Even without this morning’s meltdown, I didn’t need a reminder that grief could show up sideways. I’d read the books, sat through the counseling, learned how kids her age reached for control when everything else felt unstable. Some days routine helped. Other days, it gave her something to push against. Today was the latter.

And after yesterday, after hearing six more weeks spoken out loud in a courtroom, I wasn’t about to rush her through a rough morning to make my life easier. Junie came first, even when it made everything else harder.

Daisy was in the hall bathroom with the shower running, taking her time, and that was okay. This morning, having Junie with me felt like the right call. If Daisy needed a moment alone to fall apart, she deserved that too.

I dragged a hand down my face. “Okay. Let’s retrace our steps.”

Junie sat up, sniffling. “I wore it last week.”