“No.”
“You said later.”
“It’s later-adjacent.”
“That means no.”
“Correct.”
He sighs like I’m the difficult one and returns to his cereal.
I last four minutes.
Four.
I check the front window.
Empty road.
I check my phone.
No message.
I check the back door.
Locked.
I check the front again.
Still empty.
I check the security camera feed Wildcat set up on my phone, which used to be for thieves and rival clubs and is now apparently for making sure a woman can buy cheese without me developing a brain bleed.
August sits at the table eating cereal and watching me with open judgment.
“You’re not good at waiting,” he says.
“I’m excellent at waiting.”
“You keep walking.”
“That’s pacing. Very advanced waiting.”
He nods like he is filing that away.
Dangerous child.
I make coffee I don’t need. Burn my tongue. Curse in my head because apparently I’m now censoring myself for a five-year-old who called me a coward before lunch.
The kid finishes cereal, carries his bowl to the sink without being asked, and sets it there carefully.
Amelia did that.
Whatever else Jeremy tried to ruin, she gave the boy manners, humor, and a backbone made out of bendy little kid bones.
“You want to work on the courthouse?” I ask.
His eyes light. “Yes.”