Page 63 of The Girl He Loves

Chapter 24

Tuesday Night

By the timeI get home, I’ve composed myself and had enough self-talks that I’m thoroughly confused about how I feel.

What I do know is when I see Dax, I experience happiness. What I’m confused about is the why. Am I happy because he’s there to protect and save me, or for reasons more genuine? Like I’m happy to see my friend.

Dax is at the kitchen table working on his laptop. Tyler is next to him working on his homework.

“What’s going on here?” I set the groceries for tacos on the kitchen counter.

“The men are working,” Dax says with a wink.

Tyler smiles up at me. “We’re using our big brains. I’m using mine to do math, and Dax is using his to show his football smarts.”

The way he says it, I know he’s quoting Dax.

I glance at Dax. “Trivia contest or something?”

He shakes his head. “Proving I’m worthy.”

What a cryptic answer. Or I’m reading into everything. Could be both.

“Tacos?” I say.

Tyler makes a face, and not a good one.

“What? You like tacos,” I say.

Tyler gives a nonchalant shrug. “I’m over tacos. Can we get takeout or have steak or something?”

I feign disbelief. “You’re over tacos? No one gets over tacos. Tacos span time.” I look at Dax. “I blame you. You bring your fancy grilling technique and online food ordering skills to the house, and now my kid’s a food critic. He’s over tacos.”

Dax laughs. “What if we call them street tacos. Put them on those smaller shells. Does that appeal to you?” he asks Tyler.

Tyler gives a small nod, his nose raised in the air ever so slightly. “I’ll try it.”

“I don’t have small shells,” I say.

Dax says, “Do you have regular tortillas?”

I nod.

“We’ll just cut smaller ones from those.”

Tyler gives a thumbs-up then taps his head. “Big brains.”

“Yep,” I say. My first thought is cutting smaller ones from the large ones is a waste. And something I would never ever do because money doesn’t grow on trees. But Dax is here, so we break the rules. And even though his idea is wasteful, it’s also frivolous and fun, and I love those things. I’d forgotten what frivolous feels like.

I turn back to the groceries, not wanting Dax to see my face, worried the pleasure of my addiction to his disruption of our lives will show.

A chair behind me scrapes against the floor and, when I turn, Dax is lifting himself up.

“Let me show you this alarm,” he says.

I toss the few groceries in the fridge and follow Dax into the hallway, where the wall is devoid of any alarm system. Only his crutches lean against the wall.

I look around confused. “Where is it?”

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