Page 24 of When It's Us
Ginger’s still standing there, holding her phone up, trying like hell to get a signal when I return.
“Put your ass in the chair, California,” I tell her, pulling the other one over so that it’s across from the one I want her to sit in.
She doesn’t budge. I sigh, set the first aid kit down, and step forward.
Before she can react, I pluck the phone from her hand and slip it into my back pocket.
“Hey—” she protests, brows shooting up.
“You weren’t gonna sit while holding that thing,” I say, already turning back to the kit and dropping into the chair. “You can have it back when I’m done.”
She stares at me like she’s unsure whether to slap or thank me.
I unzip the kit and keep my eyes on what I’m doing. “Just sit down and let me look at your feet.”
“My feet?” she echoes, nose scrunched.
I glance up, catch the skepticism in her face, but there’s curiosity there too.
“You’re gonna have a shit ton of blisters if you don’t already. So sit the hell down and let me check.”
Still, she doesn’t move.
“I have no problem making you,” I add, without looking up.
There’s no heat in my tone, and I try to tell myself that taking care of her feet is for practicality’s sake—basic first aid. But the truth is, I hate seeing her hurt. Even a little. Even if she’d kick my ass for caring.
That’s when the suspicion kicks in. “You probably have a weird foot fetish or some sick shit and this is your ploy to get a look at them.”
I shake my head, laughing. “If I had a thing for busted hiking feet, maybe.”
But whatever’s driving her, curiosity or pain, it works. She finally lowers herself into the chair.
“You didn’t have to take my phone,” she mutters.
I huff a laugh. “You ought to have that thing surgically attached to your hand, the way you gawk at it.”
Her voice comes out quiet. “I haven’t heard from the boys yet today.”
That shuts me up. I hadn’t expected that.
I clear my throat, trying not to feel like a dick. “Your ex a shitty dad or something?”
She blinks, like I caught her off guard. “No. Peter’s a great dad.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
When she doesn’t make a snide remark, I glance up at her, stopping my rummage for supplies. Her face is soft when her gaze meets mine, and there’s fire there—but it’s not sharp. It’s aching.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says quietly, “to be a parent.”She swallows hard. “I’ve spent almost six years raising two tiny, identical humans. And I’m doing the best I can. If that means checking my phone more than I should, then...yeah. Sometimes that’s what it looks like.”
I drop my gaze from hers and grit my teeth, hating that her words get under my skin. She’s right. I have zero idea what that’s like.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she murmurs, and for a second, I think that’s it. But then she keeps going, softer this time, like the words are slipping out before she can stop them. “Have you ever stayed up all night, pacing the floor, because your baby’s struggling to breathe with a respiratory infection? Or watchedyour toddler take their first wobbly steps and prayed they wouldn’t fall and crack their head open?”
I shake my head once, not looking up. “Can’t say I have.”
“Have you ever let go of a bike seat, knowing they’ll fall but needing them to try anyway? Sent your kid off to preschool with your stomach in knots, scared they’ll sit alone at lunch? That someone will be mean to them?”
