Page 67 of Where We Stay

“You leaving early tomorrow?” Knox asks around a mouthful of bacon.

I grimace. “Swallow before you speak. I’m already trying not to throw up.”

“Jeez, sorry, Dad,” he replies, his mouth still fucking full.

“I’ll be at the shop until three. I’m picking Aspen up, then taking her back for parent-teacher night.”

“Have you met her teacher yet?” Logan asks.

“Not yet. I tried Monday, but I missed her. Mom and Dad have handled pickup the rest of the week.” I take a drink of coffee. “Aspen likes her, though. She never shuts up about Miss Morgan.”

Every afternoon, it’s the same thing.

Miss Morgan says butterflies start as caterpillars, Dad. Did you know that?

Miss Morgan says you’re not supposed to swear, Daddy.

Miss Morgan this. Miss Morgan that.

I love my kid, but how many times can one man hear the name Miss Morgan in a week?

A lot.

The answer is a lot.

“At least she’s comfortable with her,” Logan says. “You coming to Mom and Dad’s for dinner afterward?”

“Yeah. We’ll head over once the meeting is done.”

Our usual Sunday dinner was moved to Monday because Mom and Dad took Aspen whale watching today.

The conversation shifts to the Mustang we’ve been restoring for Dad. Logan works at our parents’ marina on Northern Beach, but cars have always been something we shared. We bought the ’67 Fastback last year with plans to surprise Dad at Christmas. Most of the engine is rebuilt and the body has been stripped, but we’re running out of time—and still arguing about the paint color.

Even with Logan talking beside me, part of my attention remains fixed on the wall separating the café from the salon.

Fucking Blair.

* * *

By early afternoon, I’ve drunk enough coffee to wake the dead and finally feel like a functioning member of society again.

I say goodbye to the boys and head back toward The Breakwater to collect my truck. When I pass the salon, I slow long enough to glance through the windows.

Completely coincidental.

The girls are gone.

The disappointment settling in my chest is fucking ridiculous.

Once I’ve collected my truck, I drive to my parents’ house to pick up Aspen.

Their house sits high above Northern Beach, close enough to the cliff that the ocean seems to begin at the edge of the backyard. From the driveway, most of Hartwell stretches out below—the marina, the curve of the beach, the lighthouse and streets winding through the maples.

The house itself is huge, with weathered gray shingles, white trim, wraparound porches and more windows than any house reasonably needs. It’s been in our family longer than I’ve been alive, but Mom has always made it feel like a home instead of an estate.

Aspen comes barreling through the front door the second I pull up.

“Daddy!”