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Had she forgotten to set it? She never forgot her alarm.
“Mommy?”
His little face was full of sticky puzzlement. She grabbed him around the waist and tickled him until he shrieked with laughter, then pulled him close, inhaling peppermint backed by little-boy sweat and playground dirt.
“How was school?” she murmured.
He launched into a complicated story involving birthday donuts for a girl named Jovie, but Hannah lay there and held him, stroking the blond hair back from his forehead. Sometimes she wondered how her entire life could narrow down to one person, all her worries fading into the background when he was in her arms.
“Hannah!” her mother called. “Your father will be home in twenty minutes!”
Hannah made a face at James. He giggled.
She shoved herself out of bed and fished jeans and a T-shirt out of her dresser. Her parents had always made a big deal out of eating as a family, and that hadn’t changed when James had come along. When she’d been a kid, Hannah had loved sitting together at the table every night, hearing her father’s firehouse stories, grinning when he’d cut her food and arrange it into smiley faces and shapes.
Now, it seemed that her father used dinnertime as an excuse to list the ways she should be improving her life. Hannah used the time to ignore him when she could, choosing instead to focus on James and his table manners.
Her mother spent the time running interference.
At least her father was bringing someone home. She could eat in peace while he and some guy from the force traded BS stories.
She sent James down to help set the table, then pulled her hair into a clip. A glance in the mirror revealed dark circles under her eyes, so she spent an extra minute on lotion, some concealer, and a little bit of blush and mascara.
A far cry from the days in high school when she’d go all out. But seriously, who was she impressing? Some fifty-year-old firefighter with a beer gut and a smoker’s cough? Some retired cop who wished for the good ol’ days?
The door slammed downstairs. Male voices echoed in the kitchen. Hannah hustled.
Before dashing down the steps, she grabbed her phone. She’d been hoping for a message from Michael, but he hadn’t sent her anything.
He’d hung up on her this morning, after sounding so . . . broken. Should she call?
Or should she leave him alone?
She sent him a text before she could think better of it.
Just checking on you.
She didn’t think he was going to respond, but he did, almost immediately.
I’m okay.
She had no idea how to read that. Reassurance? Or a brush-off?
She told herself to stop being stupid. His life was in complete upheaval, and she was sitting here trying to read meaning into a message.
Her fingers slid across the screen.
Do you need dinner? I can bring you food.
I’m okay.
She hesitated at the top of the steps, wanting to call, but not wanting to push him. Another text appeared.
Thanks, though. I’m meeting someone at the Roadhouse at 7.
The Roadhouse was a little tavern that sat on the outskirts of town. At least once a month her engine company had to peel someone’s car off a tree after they’d had too much to drink.
Meeting someone?
