Something flickers in her face.
Not trust.
Something smaller. A door cracking.
“Okay,” she says.
I reach for my cut on the chair.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
“Putting my cut on.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not standing around in my kitchen half-dressed like a house husband in a hostage situation.”
“You were coming with me.”
“Thought about it.”
“Derby.”
“I said thought.”
“And?”
“And I’m not.” Each word feels like pulling barbed wire out of my own skin. “You said alone.”
“I did.”
“So go alone.”
August looks between us. “Can I go?”
“No,” we both say.
He sighs. “Rude.”
Amelia turns to him, guilt already creeping into her eyes. “I won’t be long.”
“Are you getting cereal?”
“Yes.”
“The marshmallow kind?”
“You already have the marshmallow kind.”
“We need backup.”
I point my coffee mug at him. “Kid understands supplies.”
Amelia gives me a look. “You are not helping.”
“Rarely do.”
August slides down from his chair and runs to her. She crouches immediately, and he wraps his arms around her neck. She closes her eyes when she hugs him back. Every time she leaves him, even for a grocery store, something in her breaks and rebuilds badly.