“I can’t promise I won’t be unfair to you because of him.”
His eyes hold mine. “I know.”
I hate that he keeps saying that.
I love that he does.
No.
Not love.
Appreciate.
A safer word.
A lying word.
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “My turn.”
I brace.
“I can be an asshole.”
“That isn’t news.”
His mouth twitches. “I can bark when I should talk. I can joke when I should shut up. I’m used to handling problems with fists, engines, or threats. Sometimes all three.”
“Also not news.”
“I’m not good at house stuff.”
I look around at the curtains, groceries, fort, night-light, and dinosaur sheets. “Your house is learning.”
“My house is under occupation.”
“That too.”
His face sobers. “I don’t know how to do a kid in my space.”
My chest tightens.
“You were good with him tonight.”
“Tonight was sandwiches and fort inspections.”
“That counts to him.”
Derby looks toward the hall. “Yeah. That’s what worries me.”
The honesty is quiet.
I understand it.
A child can attach to a man before the man decides whether he is safe to attach to. A child can see a biker fixing a fort and make him important. A child can ask if monsters are inside and believe the answer.
August isn’t the only one in danger of trusting too fast.
“What are you worried about?” I ask.