She stood in the hallway, watching how great Trace was with his dad—positioning his pillow so it didn’t press on his cheek, covering him to make sure he was warm, waiting until he was sure George was asleep before he backed slowly from the room and closed the door with a featherlight touch.
Her mind was spiraling so fast, thoughts clicking and forming before she could process them, that the words rolled out of her mouth before she’d thought them through. “You’d make a great dad.”
He looked at her as if she’d invited him to the pumpkin patch or something equally as out of left field.
“The way you are with him,” she clarified, pressing her hands behind her as she leaned against the wall. “I can tell you’d make a great dad.”
An awkward sensation heated her face, and she decided space might be the best plan for them right now. “I need to get back to the café. My day has spiraled out of control.” She turned and started toward the kitchen. “I should go over his care and medications with you. He’s got antibiotics and pain meds.”
“No.” The tight, obstinate tone drew Avery’s gaze. Trace was frowning at the plastic bag she’d brought in from the car. “He shouldn’t have been given pain meds.”
“The nurse said they were just—”
“Just nothing.” He shook the bag’s contents onto the kitchen table. Among the bandages were three pill bottles. He picked up one.
“Those are antibiotics,” she said.
“These,” he held up the other two bottles, “are the pain meds?”
“Yes, but they’re not—”
“They’re not staying in this house.” Without reading the labels, he turned the tops and lifted his hand over the sink.
Avery stepped up and put a hand on his arm. Her mind spun with unfinished thoughts. The nurse’s words floated into her head. “Since Mr. Hutton’s addiction began with pain meds . . .” Immediately followed by George’s words, “He’s always got the best stuff, and Trace always knows where to find him.”
A tingle started in the pit of her stomach and radiated through her belly. Her mind was split between two possibilities for his actions. Either Trace was also addicted to the meds and had to get the temptation out of reach or . . .
“Trace, that’s a waste. Those would have been good to have around. With you fallin’ off roofs, you could probably use them now and then.”
“I don’t make a habit of falling off roofs.” He pulled from her grasp and poured the pills down the drain. “Besides, they make me sick. I’d rather be in pain than puking. And if he gets his hands on this . . .” He turned on the water and flipped on the garbage disposal. Then turned everything off with a satisfied, “That shit’s dust.”
Avery’s mouth still hung open with unfinished words.
And she knew.
Knew without any doubt.
He’d just explained everything with perfect clarity.
Avery started laughing. It wasn’t funny. But, oh, it was. Because she understood. She understood so perfectly it brought tears to her eyes. She put a hand over her mouth, trying to control the spill of emotion.
Trace turned to her with surprise and alarm. “Avery? What . . . ? Ah, shit. What the hell did I do now?” He came to her, slid his arms around her, and frowned. “Are you laughing or crying?”
“Both.” She shook her head and pointed to the sink. “I just saw myself at twelve pouring my dad’s whiskey and vodka and brandy down the drain. Oh my God, I got such a beating for that. Left a scar on my shoulder.”
Trace’s expression went slack. He eased her back to arm’s length as Avery kept talking.
“And I remember answering the door and only being able to crack it because my dad was passed-out drunk behind the door, but I’d tell whoever it was my daddy was out, because it was true—he was passed out. I used to lie for him, hide shit for him, steal for him. I was conditioned to do anything for him. And I would have, right up until I ran away with David.”
She framed Trace’s face, and as she stroked her hands down his jaw, the sadness seeped in. “But you didn’t get that get-out-of-jail-free card, did you?”
His gaze lowered, and his hands dropped away. He tried to turn.
“You can’t hide anymore, Trace.” She pulled him back and tilted her head to look into his eyes, but he kept them averted. “Not from me. I may not know exactly how you got caught with the drugs, whether you were buying them for your dad or the cops came and you took them off your dad before he got caught with them. Or maybe he did get caught and the words, ‘They’re mine’ just sprouted wings and flew from your mouth. But the drugs weren’t for you, and you weren’t the one
who deserved to be in prison. Were you?”
He turned away and braced his hands on the counter but said nothing.