Page 170 of One Big Little Secret

Even the thought makes my throat tighten.

There’s little Arlo, playing with an old set of army men and military vehicles I used to own when I was a kid. He rams a plastic tank through a group of blue soldiers and dammit, I can’t help but smile.

Have you ever felt like you’re seeing a memory made flesh?

That’s me right now, awestruck at how much Rory blood is really in the kid’s veins. He’s just missing an older asshole brother or two to come screaming in at the last second with their plastic jets firing spring-loaded missiles.

Junie and Salem are on the sofa together. Like any good woman willing to shack up with Dexter, she took Salem under her wing immediately.

Evelyn Hibbing sits with Mom on the other sofa, sipping a negroni and chatting away. She’ll likely hang around for a few more weeks while Minnesota thaws enough for her liking.

If that isn’t picturesque enough, Mom strung up fairy lights. The place glows with this cozy lantern orange that shines off Salem’s hair.

Honest to God, I could stare at her forever.

“Patton?” Mom says, and I blink, dragging my gaze off Salem’s slow smile to Mom’s knowing grin. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come join us.”

“Mr. Patman! Come play.” Arlo leaps up and takes my hand, dragging me over to his miniature battlefield. “You can be the tanks,” he tells me, grabbing a big artillery piece a couple feet away.

“So you think the name fits, huh?”

Arlo laughs, too oblivious for the history lesson I’m hinting at. When he’s older, I think he’ll learn to appreciate George S. Patton like my old man taught me.

Another family quirk. My namesake comes from a great uncle who served as one of the general’s right-hand officers in Europe, but that’s a story for another day.

Putting on my game face, I try to live up to the name, steering the tanks into a tactical position, only for Arlo to stop me and move them back into the open.

“I can’t see them when they’re back there! How’re they gonna shoot bad guys?” he asks. Infallible logic.

“They’ll attack when the enemy gets closer. Tanks need better range and a good line of sight to hurt the enemy. Trust me. Did you know I was named after a famous general?” I ask as Arlo makes explosion noises, standing over the blue soldiers lined up against us.

I think I lose a tank and fire back.

The boy knocks over a mess of soldiers, clapping his hands in delight.

“Have you learned about World War II yet, Arlo?” And what do I know about age-appropriate history?

“World War II? Yeah, the movies.”

“You know how big it was and how many men fought, then,” I tell him. I smile and crouch down next to him. “Lots of folks had relatives in the war. Even you—probably.”

I add the last word as an afterthought, despite knowing he’s too young to guess any hidden meanings.

Hell, it’s right at the tip of my tongue, aching to tell him the truth about his family. About his father. Aboutme.

But he purses his lips and stops making battle noises as he looks at me. I’m not sure he understands.

For the hundredth time, I’m dumbstruck by how close his eyes are to mine—and how stupid it is that I didn’t notice before.

Then again, no one else here has mentioned it yet.

Or maybe they’re afraid to contemplate a world where I’m insta-dad.

“What about you?” he asks. “Were you in the war?”

I chuckle and ruffle his hair.

“Nah, the great big world wars were before my time. I’m notthatold. And not a soldier, kid. I had a brief stint in the Navy instead. I like to think it helped straighten me out and built a little character.” I point at his ships a little farther away, mostly old battleships modeled on the type from the First World War.

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