No Quick Fix (Torus Intercession 1)

We definitely made an impression.

It was my fault, but they weren’t sad thinking about moving after that. They were, instead, sad about the bunnies. I took them for ice cream before dinner, even though it was thirty-two degrees outside, which was apparently normal for the second full week in November in Ursa. Bundled all up, hats and boots and gloves and scarves, they looked like polar bears all over again, except this time they were red and purple.

We had to stop at the store to get dinner, but we were all tired, so we got stuff to make burritos and headed for home. That night after we ate and cleaned up, did homework and they took showers, instead of me changing into my running clothes and the girls going to their bedrooms to read before bed, we all convened in my room. They both got under the covers, and I lay on top with just a quilt that their grandmother, Emery’s mother, had made. I was reading them Harry Potter, since I had all the books on my Kindle, and as we vegged, Olivia did her favorite thing and put her fingers in my hair, which I really needed to cut.

“You used to do that––” April yawned, then continued talking to her sister, “––to Mom.”

“I know. Brann’s hair is soft too, and look at all the pretty colors.”

“Yeah, it is pretty. I want blond hair.”

“Brown is better,” I assured her. “Like your dad.”

She yawned again. “Brann.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna leave the day of the wedding or right before?”

“I dunno,” I said, not really having given it much thought. “Probably before, I would think.”

“You’re not coming to the wedding?”

“I don’t think I’m invited.”

“But once Dad marries Lydia, he’ll have to do even more stuff with her, so who’ll take care of us?”

“Lydia probably has that figured out, don’t’cha think?”

They were quiet.

“Maybe I can go live with you,” Olivia told me. “’Cause maybe Daddy’s gonna have a new baby with Lydia.”

I scoffed, and they both looked at me. “Don’t be stupid. Your dad loves you guys more than anything. He would fight anybody to keep you guys with him.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Okay,” Olivia agreed and then put her head next to mine on the pillow.

I wasn’t sure when I stopped reading, but when I woke up a bit later, Winston was asleep on the end of my bed, Olivia had her arm thrown around my neck on the left, and April was snoring away on my right.

I should have gotten up and carried everyone to bed, but I was too tired. There was a storm outside, I could hear the rain pelting the windows, but I was warm and safe inside, and quite content to be the protector of two little girls and a Westie.

Thirteen

Saturday morning I was crippled from sleeping like a contortionist in my own bed. All because I didn’t want to disturb either kid or the stupid dog. It was like real-life Tetris, fitting us all together, and my back was not a fan.

Crawling over April, I got up, one eye open, and nearly killed myself on the dismount. The second I overbalanced and bumped the wall, Winston lifted his head, jumped down off my bed, and was there, beside me, staring up like I was nuts.

“If you were getting up anyway, you could’ve moved then, ya dick.”

He appeared very smug. Annoying dog.

As I staggered to the kitchen, Winston darted ahead of me to greet Emery, which was a surprise. Not that the dog went to him, but that the head of the house was up already at—I had to check the rooster clock on the wall—a quarter to nine. At first I had dreaded the weekends, because it was always awkward with him being home, but lately he’d been gone before any of us got up.

“G’morning,” I greeted him, watching him pet his dog for a moment before making my way to the coffeepot. “Thank you for making this.”

Nothing. No response at all.

That was new. Normally we were at least civil in passing. I’d worked so hard to stay out of his way, walking out of a room when he came in, always on my way somewhere unless we were stuck having a meal together, me quiet as he talked to his girls, and getting up and starting the dishes as soon as possible.

“You going somewhere?” I asked, trying again to make conversation, noticing how he was dressed—the jeans and the tweed blazer with the matching waistcoat and brogues a bit much for an early Saturday morning.

He ignored my question. “Lydia is livid with you.”

I stopped admiring the cut of the jacket on his shoulders, the swell of his chest, how long his legs were, and how the collar of the crisp white shirt looked against his tan skin, which I’d come to realize was his natural color. “And why’s that?” I asked, even though all I could think was… Livid Lydia. It sounded like a children’s book where the main character had anger-management issues.