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I hand her the bread and she takes a bite. “Good,” she mumbles.
I grab my own sandwich. “Good,” I agree.
Who knew peanut butter and jelly sandwiches could reduce a grown man to one-word sentences?
“Okay, back to why you think your mom is a superhero.”
“She protects me and Isabel all the time. Just last week, she helped an old lady cross the street. And you know what? She always cooks enough dinner for you because she doesn’t want you to be lonely.”
I swallow, but it’s forced, her confession causing my mouth to go dry.
I have a sudden urge to run and wake the sleeping woman upstairs, wrap her in my arms and remind her that what she does doesn’t go unnoticed. She would blush a bright red and act like it’s nothing. Because Hannah is right. She’s a protector, and she doesn’t do it for the recognition. It’s who she is.
A funny, sticky feeling lodges in my throat.
Hannah’s mouth turns down, a somber shadow casting over a freshly freckled face. “Logan, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, kid.”
Nervously, she nibbles her lip again and puts her sandwich down. I do the same.
This must be serious. We’re both abandoning our food for whatever she’s about to ask me.
“You’re strong like a superhero.”
A slow smile begins on the corner of my mouth, but I try to school my features to remain attentive.
She stays quiet for another moment, but I don’t interrupt. “Mom is a superhero, but superheroes need someone to protect them too. Do you think you could protect my mom?”
The weight of her request almost knocks me back, but I clench my fists and remain still.
How much worry is floating around in this little girl’s head to ask a question like that? I don’t know many eight-year-olds so self-aware they put other’s needs before their own.
And the question gnawing at me most, the one that clouds my vision in red: what has she seen? What does she remember? What was so bad that this brave, beautiful little girl needs someone to protect her mother?
I remember when I was her age. I spent hours imagining someone would come along and protect my mother, take us away from everything. I see so much of that kid in Hannah.
It takes all my power, but I shake the blood curdling thoughts and focus on what matters. She needs an answer and of all the people, she asked me. She took a tiny vulnerable part of herself and handed it to me to protect.
“I’ll protect her.”
Her eyebrows lift to her hairline like she was expecting me to refuse, and it’s like a punch to the gut because she expects disappointment from outsiders. “You’re up for the job?”
I chuckle, rustling my hand over the top of her hair. She groans her annoyance. “I’m up for the job, kid.” I push her water into her hand. “I’ll protect all three of you crazy women. Now drink your water.”
She pouts but obeys.
“What are you guys talking about?” Beth pads barefoot into the kitchen, yawning as she pulls her hair back into a ponytail.
“Nothing,” me and Hannah reply together.
Beth halts, scrunching her eyes in suspicion. “Weird.”
And for the umpteenth time today I have to remind myself to remove my eyes from the smooth skin of her long legs. She has shorts over the bathing suit now, but it’s little help.
“We made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Mom.”
Beth rubs her hands together and sits next to her daughter before plucking a sandwich from the plate, leaning on her elbows, and digging in. “Good,” she mutters over a mouthful of bread.
