Hate You Not

“Burke?” Margot asks.

I laugh. “He really doesn’t like to be called uncle, does he?”

Oliver shrugs. “He’s not old like an uncle.”

“Am I old like an aunt?”

The kids shake their heads. Smart kids.

There’s a silence, and I feel like I can guess what they’re thinking: Neither of us are as old as their parents. Neither of us is a mama or a daddy for them.

I go stand behind Margot and wrap an arm around her. “You did good on Hottie.” I hug Oliver. “So did you, cowboy.”

He turns around and looks up at me. “I like that Burke is here. He’s funny. Do you think he fell off the horse on purpose?”

I smile. “I think maybe not. But he played it off real well, huh?”

They nod.

“What does your uncle do in San Francisco?” I ask them, blatantly fishing.

“He just works a lot. My mom said like a thousand hours a day.” Margot takes an icy bite of popsicle and looks down.

“He does startups, right?” I ask them.

“I don’t know what that is,” she answers. “He’s just working all night and all day. Daddy said he’s going to put himself into an early grave. Too much screen time isn’t healthy.”

I have to work to mask my reaction to that. Damn, does he work that much?

“Did he come over sometimes?” I wince as I ask, and wish I could stuff my foot into my mouth. It’s not good to ask about their old life—or at least, it shouldn’t be done unless the question is important.

“Sometimes,” Oliver says. “Like maybe three times.”

“When did you see him?”

“We keep our horses at the same place as him. He would take us riding sometimes on Sundays. But that was a long time ago.”

“Oh, okay.” I file away that nugget of information. “So he’s real into horses?”

“Real into them,” Oliver says with a mischievous grin.

“What do you propose I say other than ‘real?’?” I ask them, arching my brows.

“You could use the word very. V–E–R–Y.” Margot finishes her ice pop and starts to fold the plastic wrapper accordion-style.

“Very?” I say the word as if it’s all new to me. “Now that just doesn’t feel right.”

They both mimic me saying “doesn’t,” drawing it out so it sounds like dut-uhn.

“Thank you for the notice of my accent. I aim to amuse.”

“Do you?”

I jump. Burke is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.

“Where the Hello Kitty did you come from?”

He gives me an easy smile. “Front door was unlocked.”

“I tend to keep it that way.”

“Open invitation for those snipes you mentioned.”

Both kids whirl around on their barstools with wide eyes. “Snipes?”

“What are snipes?” Oliver asks at the same time Margot says, “Are they bad guys?”

“They’re crazy creatures,” I tell them, “but they love kids.” I toss a glance at Burke before stepping over to the refrigerator. “It’s big bullies they come after.”

“There’s no bullies in here,” Oliver says, relieved.

I cut my eyes toward Burke. “I hope not.” I hold up an ice pop, then chuck it his way. There’s something gratifying about watching him fumble for it. He chuckles, maybe just a little awkward, as he rips it open with his teeth.

“Never use your teeth as tools,” I tell the kids, who are both watching.

“That’s what Mommy…” Margot trails off. Burke steps up behind her. He drapes his big hand over her small head and ruffles her hair. “You missing your mommy?” he asks, and his low voice sounds so soft and kind.

Margot nods; her face looks like it does before she cries.

“Let me tell you something.” He comes around beside her, propping his elbows on the counter’s edge and leaning over, looking at both kids. For a second, something tightens his face. Then he locks his handsome features down on neutral.

“My mom went to heaven, too.” His voice is steady, but he sucks a breath in after he says it; I can see his nostrils flare. “When I was as old as Oliver. Did you know that?” I see him swallow.

The kids nod, rapt now.

“Crying is okay to do if you get sad.” Another covert inhalation; is he struggling to say this? “Big boys and girls can cry whenever they want. As long as they’re not throwing a fit about something. Isn’t that right, Aunt June?”

“Yeah, for sure. Crying is like a shower for your brain. It washes out all the old stuff and makes your brain chemistry all sparkly and new.”

Burke nods, giving me an unreadable look over the kids’ heads.

“When I was a kid, people didn’t know crying is a good thing,” he says, his face stoic. “But now they know.”

“Did you cry when your Mommy died?” Oliver asks.

“Our Mommy didn’t die,” Margot snaps, whirling toward him with her lower lip out. “She’s in heaven!”

Oliver’s lips fold into a mean-looking smirk. “Mom and Dad are dead. There’s no such thing as heaven. That’s a myth.”