Page 83 of Through the Storm

She shakes her head, pressing her face into her hands. “I’m going to cry.”

“That’s okay,” I say immediately. “I’ll still be here.” I reach over and lace my fingers with hers. “See? No mooing.”

She squeezes my hand. Hard. “Promise me,” she whispers. “When it’s real. When I forget everything, you’ll do that.”

“I promise,” I say without hesitation. “The whole time.”

She nods, blinking fast. “Thank you.”

It’s a strange feeling, watching her relax. Knowing she trusted me enough to hand me that fear.

There’s always been something about Katy. The way she looks at me when I make her laugh or help her with something. Like I could do anything.

And for her, I would.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ben

CAR SEAT SHOWDOWN

By the timeI realize I’m sweating through my T-shirt, I’m already too far gone. I’m kneeling in Katy’s driveway, surrounded by straps, anchors, and an instruction manual clearly written by someone who hates parents. Or joy. Or me personally.

There is no universe where this should be this complicated. I tighten one strap, but another one loosens and the base moves.

“Nope,” I mutter. “Absolutely not.”

I press down with my knee like the video said. The seat wobbles anyway, mocking me.

Katy steps onto the porch, cold lemonade in hand, taking in the scene.

Me. On my knees. The car seat upside down. The instruction manual open to page twelve of thirty-seven. My dignity nowhere to be found.

She bites her lip. “Hey, QB,” she calls sweetly. “You look like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“It feels like I am,” I agree, not looking up. “Why are there six buckles and three weight charts? This is a nightmare, Katy Cat. A nightmare.”

She laughs, the sound light and easy, and something in my chest eases even as my panic spikes.

I try again. Push. Pull. Click. But the seat still shifts.

I swear. Okay. I need a new plan.

I sit back on my heels, drag a hand through my hair, and exhale like a man admitting defeat. “I’m calling Logan.”

Katy freezes. “Logan? As in Maybe Daddy Logan?”

“He’s an engineering major,” I say defensively. “And ridiculously responsible. If anyone understands this nightmare contraption, I’m sure it’s him.” Also, he won’t judge me. And he won’t pretend this is easy.

I hit FaceTime before I can overthink it. Logan answers almost immediately. “What’s up, man?”

“I’m losing a war,” I say bluntly, angling the phone toward the car seat. “Please tell me you know how this works.”

Logan squints. “Okay, yeah. Relax. First thing, see that latch near the base? Feed the strap through there.”

I follow his instructions, hands shaking just enough to piss me off.

“No, other side,” he corrects gently. “Yeah. That’s it.”