"Here's what I think we should do,” I tell him. “I'll bring out a tray of different stuff for you to pick from. Then you'll tell me honestly if you'd rather watch TV, play Nintendo Switch games, get in a hot tub—that'd be by yourself, in a screened-in porch sort of room we just had put in for the privacy. Or if you want to take a nap, get on the internet on a guest laptop... It's up to you. If you weren't here, I'd maybe drive out to another area and take her on a walk like in a baby vest thing. Actually, maybe go walking somewhere like a mall. I’ve got some things I need to buy."
"Another area?" he asks.
"Yeah, so people wouldn't recognize me."
"Does your husband have dark hair?" He frowns, looking puzzled.
"He dyed it last night."
"Why?" he asks.
"I think so people out on the street wouldn't realize he's him,” I tell Miller.
"That's fucked up."
"There's a lot of fucked up shit out there. When you find something good, you've gotta hold onto it with two hands. You know what I mean?"
He swallows and doesn't blink, and I realize that's because his eyes are full of tears. He shuts them, and the tears drop down his cheeks. He covers his face with one hand.
Ah, fuck.
"You want me to get Miss Baby?"
He shakes his head. "You don't have to."
He wraps his big hand around Edey's shoulder, gentle, and he wipes his eyes. God, the poor kid.
"Let me get some food for us. Then you should talk to me. I'm good at listening. I've got a dad that didn't want to meet me and a dead mom, and for a long time I was waiting on Luke, by myself and all that good stuff. It was rough, man. Also, I did lots of therapy. I know their tricks—psychologists. The happy tricks."
"I don't like them," he says flatly.
"Psychologists or happy tricks? Then that’s why you have me. I'm just an asshole from Brooklyn."
I move into the kitchen, feeling tightness in my chest and throat. I get out the inhaler, but I don't use it. It's okay.
Just some guy you don't know, Vanny.
But I want to help him. I don't know how therapists do their shit. I think it would kill me to see people in pain every day.
As if on cue, Sky calls my cell phone right then.
"You guys okay?" he asks.
"Sort of," I say, cradling the phone against my cheek and wrapping a hand around my mouth so Miller can't hear.
"You can't stop thinking about what he told me,” Luke says. “Can you?"
"No.” I exhale.
"I know—because I can't either. We're going to fix this, though. Somehow. We’re going to be sure he’s okay. Don't let him out of your sight, though, Vance."
"What do you mean?" I whisper.
"Just keep him close by. Keep him busy." Is Sky saying what I think he's saying? I don't want to ask outright.
I say, "Okay."
"I'll be okay today," he tells me. "Feeling better after last night. I lost it for just a little while, and I've got brown hair to prove it. But it's going to be okay. I'm moving forward with the plans for this new…center. The board has indicated they're behind me, and we're moving forward. Having a college kid seek us out...it feels good. Right. Keep me posted," he adds.
"Keep me posted, too."
"Love you,” Sky says.
"Love you more, Rayne."
I stack a platter with some breakfast scones, some turkey bacon from yesterday morning, a giant chocolate chip muffin, a bunch of fruit, some yogurt, crackers, cheese, and little sausage things I can’t thoroughly identify—I just know they smell good—and then tuck two cold water bottles under my left arm.
I find Miller standing by the built-in bookshelves to the left of the TV. His shoulders are raised a little as he holds Miss Eden. From the back, he looks a little bulkier than he does up front. I wonder if he plays sports in college, and what event kicked off his flight from school to our house. He wasn’t clear on that with Luke—at least, not that I could discern.
“Hey.” I say it softly, so I don’t startle the guy. He turns around, smiling faintly. He’s got Eden propped on one of his arms, holding her head gently with his other hand so she’s sitting up with her back against his chest.
“You’re good with her,” I tell him. “You know how to hold her.”
He blinks at me, and I think he’s trying to smile but his mouth can’t do it.
“Here…” I set the platter on an end table. “Let’s do a swap.”
He hands Edey to me with a sort of elegance that makes me wonder if he’s an artist or some other sort of craftsman.
“Let’s turn on the TV,” I suggest. “Tell me what you like. You’ll eat some food and tell me something. Anything. Favorite color, hometown… Maybe what happened to bring you here. Or nothing. We could also talk about the weather. Sports. What do you want to watch?”