Page 22 of Puck, Marry, Kill

Fuck, if only it were that easy. We should all smile all the time, be happy and joyful at the blessings we’ve been given. But life isn’t easy like that. “I would never treat your mom or anyone else poorly. It’s not who I am. But you know that your mom and I ... we’re friends. That’s all.”

It stings a bit to say that, but it’s the truth. She’s a complete smokeshow, with a flair for weirdly interesting animal facts, a healthy sprinkle of silly fun, and a plateful of heavy responsibilities and trauma, but we are just friends. I think she needs that. Hell, I do too.

“Friends can be jerks too. Just be nice to her,” Harley tells me. “She does so much for me, even putting up with Dad because she thinks I need a male role model.” The kid rolls his eyes hard. “As if he’s one.”

Damn. That’s harsh. But true.

I sigh, giving the boy a heavy look. “Sometimes the role modeling isn’t in what to do, but rather, in whatnotto do. Who not to be.”

“Like opposites? So if I do the opposite of what Dad would do, I’ll be okay?”

That is a nuclear bomb of a question. But I tell him the truth. “The fact that you see how he behaves, and you asked that question? You are already more than okay, Harley.”

“Thanks, Dom.”

“Anytime.”

“Can we still practice again?” he asks hopefully.

Laughing, I nod. “Absolutely.” I hold up one finger. “After both the doctor and your mom clear you.”

He sags. “So, like never.”

A short time later, Briar comes back in, and sure enough, Harley was right—her eyes are a bit bloodshot and red-rimmed, something they weren’t earlier. Clearly, the conversation in the hallway wasn’t polite. But more importantly, she’s also alone.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He left,” Briar tells him with no further commentary and no explanation.

I wonder if she asked him to leave. Or told him to. Or if he wasn’t getting his way, so he stomped out like a tantrum-throwing child. And though I’m glad he’s gone, I worry what he said to Briar before leaving. What buttons did he push? What thoughts did he plant?

Briar places a gentle kiss on Harley’s head before turning to me. “You should go too. It’s getting late and we’re fine. We’ll wait for the discharge paperwork and go home.”

I’m not going anywhere. If Briar doesn’t want me in here, I’ll go sit in the waiting room, but I’m not leaving her. I don’t have to argue with her, though. Harley does it for me.

“No! Stay, please. Mom never has anyone to help her and you’re already here,” he tells me, bypassing his mother’s orders. “You could get her a candy bar or something? So she doesn’t get hangry. We didn’t have dinner,” he reminds us.

Briar looks uncertain, like she’s worried Harley’s pressuring me into doing something I don’t want to. As if that’s even possible. “I wasn’t leaving anyway. I was going to sit outside and wait for you,” I declare, quietly but 100 percent serious. The look of surprise on her face is beautiful. I don’t think Briar has had people in her corner before. Lucky for her, I have, and I know what to do. “I’ll check the vending machines and see what we’re working with. Maybe some chips—potatoes are a vegetable, some peanut butter crackers—that’s a protein and fat, and some Starburst? Fruit flavoring is probably the closest thing to a fruit we’ll get.”

“Sounds good,” Briar admits, looking relieved. “They might have Hostess pies too.”

“Get Mom a Snickers,” Harley instructs. “She likes that they’re named after a horse.”

I glance at Briar in confusion. “A horse?”

She shrugs and half smiles, seemingly embarrassed. “They named it after the beloved family horse.”

Grinning at learning another random animal fact from her arsenal, I promise, “Definitely getting a Snickers. Back in a minute.”

As I leave them, I glance up and down the hallway, checking to see if Tyler is still lurking around. I would be, and I don’t expect any different of him. But I don’t spot him anywhere—not in the ER, or the nearby hallways I make a quick loop through, and not in the vending machine area. I grab us some snacks—especially a Snickers—and get back to the ER as fast as I can, where I find the doctor talking to Briar.

“No fracture. You’ll want to let it rest for a couple of days, so no skating. But by the weekend, he should be okay. Tape it up the first few times he laces up and he should be good. Here’s a printout of how to do it.”

Briar is nodding along like she’s memorizing every word and takes the paper from the doctor, looking it over. From here, I can see that they’re telling her to do a basic figure-eight taping job, something I’ve done and had done to me a thousand times.

The doctor finishes his spiel. “Any questions? Mom? Dad? Harley?” He looks around the room at us.

Briar’s eyes pop open wide as she points at me. “Oh, he’s not—”