Page 73 of October
She stiffened at first like she didn't know how to receive comfort, but then let out a shaky breath and leaned into it.
"I'm here," I whispered. "If you ever need me, I'm here. You don't have to go through this alone."
She gave this small, dry laugh against my shoulder. "I know. That's why I show up smelling like regret and caffeine and let you make the place smell like Dior."
"Ha, Dior wishes it could pullmeoff." I replied
She burst out laughing, tipping her head back. "God, your dad is really rubbing off on you."
I smirked. "What can I say? It's genetic. Drama, good hair, and premium insults—it's a family inheritance."
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Next thing I know, you'll be out here giving motivational speeches about self-worth while grilling lamb."
I grinned. "Don't tempt me. I'll monologue about personal growthandseason the chicken perfectly."
"Menace," she muttered, still smiling.
"Limited edition menace," I shot back.
"Terrifying."
"Flawless."
***************
Thomas brought the kids home like he always did, same time, same quiet knock, same careful footsteps on the hallway tiles. There was something ritualistic about it, like he moved through the world on a schedule only he knew how to follow.
From the kitchen, I heard my dad open the door and greet him with his usual warm chuckle.
"Thomas," he said, drawing out the name like it was an old habit. " Beige again? What is this, a silent protest? Did someone tell you color costs extra? You look like asepia flashback, Thomas. Tell me something, have you ever, in your entire life, worn a color thatwasn'ta variation of oatmeal?"
I peeked around the corner and saw Thomas standing there in his usual outfit: tan slacks, a light brown sweater, and a camel-colored coat draped over one arm.
He blinked at my dad, unbothered. "I've always dressed like this. Since I was a teen."
My dad squinted at him like he was a museum exhibit. "So no curiosity? No rebellion? You've never stood in front of a blue shirt and thought,let's be wild today? Not interested in branching out? Ever? Or are you just... color blind?" He gestured up and down dramatically. "Brown, beige, amber, taupe—you are a walking cup of weak coffee." Dad wasn't done. "You allergic to color or just emotionally attached to cardboard tones? Seriously—what's wrong with blue? Red? God forbid, green?"
Thomas, deadpan, replied, "It's the color palette of October's eyes."
Then he turned, calm and deliberate, and walked into the kitchen, setting the takeout bags neatly on the counter like a man arranging important evidence. Precise. Careful. Controlled.
He said it so plainly, so matter-of-fact, like he was stating the colour of the sky or the shape of the moon—like it was the most obvious, indisputable truth in the world. No theatrics, no emphasis, no need for explanation. Justfact.
I turned to my mom instinctively. She was already smiling, shaking her head slowly, that soft laugh of hers caught just behind her lips.
"Where's Jimmy?" my mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"He's coming," Thomas said, just as the front door creaked again. I turned toward it and there he was—Jimmy, breezing in with his hoodie half-zipped but this time, something was different. Jimmy didn't even glance at me. No smile, no "hi, Mom," not even a sideways look. Just brushed right past like I wasn't standing there.
It hit me harder than I expected. Like someone pulling a rug out from under me with no warning. I opened my mouth to say something, to call him back—but Thomas gently touched my arm, stopping me before I could take a step.
"Just... let him have a moment," he murmured, voice low, eyes steady but soft. "Give him a little space."
I stared after Jimmy's small figure as he disappeared into the hallway, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it weighed a thousand bricks. My heart cracked. He never ignored me—notlike that. And now this cold little silence sat between us, sharp and unfamiliar.
I swallowed hard, adjusting Lola in my arms, her tiny head heavy against my shoulder, already slipping into sleep.It's going to be another sleepless night,I thought bitterly.
"I'll put her down," I muttered, my voice half there. I walked Lola to her room, laid her gently in the crib, brushing a curl away from her flushed cheek. In the living room, I heard Alice's voice rise in excitement as she darted toward my dad, probably for stories or snacks—something familiar, something easy.
