The fear in his eyes guts me.
He’s trying so hard to be brave, but it’s clear Harper wasn’t the only one shaken by everything that happened. Everything in his world just got shaken up. He thought Z was his dad and just learned he’s a bad guy. He’s got to be terrified of losing the one constant left in his life.
I walk over to the island and sink onto the barstool next to him, close enough that our elbows almost touch.
“She’s going to be okay,” I say, pouring every ounce of certainty I can muster into the words. I say it like it’s a given. “Your mom is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. She loves you more than anything in the world, and that’ll bring her back around to us.”
“To us?” He looks at me with those too-knowing eyes.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “To us.”
He considers this, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Mom said you were her brother. Is that why we both like numbers? Because we’re family?”
I choke a little on the sip of water I just took. Then the choke becomes coughing, and I take a longer drink.
“We are family,” I finally manage. “But your mom and I?—”
I cough a few more times, then take another drink. “We were… uh… stepbrother and stepsister. Her dad married my mom when we were teenagers.”
He’s frowning down at his sandwich. “So you aren’t… real family?”
“Wearereal family,” I say firmly, aware that I’m navigating a minefield.
His eyes peek over at me with what I think is a look of hope. “So you and me can be family, too.”
“I hope so.” It’s the most honest answer I can give. “I really, really hope so.”
Bruiser nods slowly, processing.
Then he says, “Did you know that in a sunflower, the seeds are arranged in spirals that go both clockwise and counterclockwise? And the number of spirals in each direction are consecutive Fibonacci numbers, like fifty-five one way and eighty-nine the other way. And that arrangement is actually the most efficient way to pack seeds into a circular space because of the golden ratio. It’s like, mathematically perfect.”
The subject change is jarring, but I recognize it for what it is—a nine-year-old’s coping mechanism, retreating into the safe world of facts and patterns when emotions get too complicated.
“That’s amazing,” I say and mean it. “So nature figured out the most efficient design millions of years ago just by trial and error?”
“Evolution is basically just math experimenting with different equations until it finds the ones that work best,” he says matter-of-factly. “Mom says evolution is the universe doing homework.”
I laugh, the sound surprising me. “That’s exactly what it is.”
We sit there in comfortable silence while he finishes his sandwich, and I watch him, trying to memorize everything—the way he chews thoughtfully, the small constellation of freckles across his nose, the cowlick at his crown that makes his hair stick up despite being damp, the way his feet swing in rhythm like he’s counting beats in his head.
This is my son.
My brilliant, pattern-seeking, Fibonacci-loving son.
He clearly gets his mathematical mind from me and his fierce spirit from Harper and somehow, he combines both into something entirely his own.
It’s like looking at a miracle.
“Can I have another sandwich?” Bruiser asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I smile, pushing off the barstool. “Absolutely. And you can tell me more about these Fibonacci numbers while I make it. I want to know everything.”
His answering grin is pure sunshine breaking through clouds.
TWENTY-FIVE
HARPER