Page 34 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Who the hell is she anyway?
I can picture her too easily: the quick flare of her nose when she’s mad, the way she flips her hair out of her eyes like an argument punctuation mark, that scarlet flush she gets when she’s sure she’s right. Which, it seems, is always.
“Shoes,” I say, and Brick limps to the door, crutches still leaned within easy reach if he decides that pride isn’t worth pain. He doesn’t grab them.
We drive. We pass Brime Street. We pass Scotty’s. I don’t mean to look; I look anyway. Sun glances off the window like a mirror. No green eyes glaring back, which is probably for the best.
“You want a scone on the way home later?” I ask, pretending I’m only thinking of snacks and not the woman who bakes them. “Scotty’s has your favorite.”
“I’m good,” he says, voice a little too quick. “Thanks.”
The rest of the ride is the soft white noise of tires and a kid who’s somewhere I can’t reach yet.
At the school, Ms. Milly lights up when she sees him. She smells like oranges and books. “Brick!” she says, kneeling to hug him, and a complicated feeling tugs at something sore in me. It’s been a long time since an adult bent and gathered my son like that. Rebecca would have. She would have done it better than anyone.
“You’ve got the doctor’s note?” she asks.
I hand it over. “Cleared to participate as comfort allows.”
She reads it longer than necessary, lips moving. Teachers read a lot of medical jargon. They don’t need to. Life would be kinder if they didn’t have to.
“Great,” she says. “We’ll take it slow.”
“Call me if slow gets weird,” I say, and give Brick a look that meansI’m here.
He nods without meeting my eyes.
I drive away with the window down, letting the wind hit the thoughts I can’t clean up by hand.
It’s just before three. I get to the school ten minutes early and watch the tidal wave of kids spilling out: backpacks bouncing, voices crashing and receding. Brick emerges near the back of the current. He’s walking carefully but seems steady. That should relieve me. It doesn’t.
There’s a boy with him. Shorter by an inch, wiry, that coiled-spring look some kids get when they’re deciding who to be. I recognize him without knowing how: the way he taps Brick’s shoulder like a test. He says something. Brick shrugs. The kid taps harder, the kind of shove that’s almost not a shove if you’re the one doing it. Brick doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look at him. He just… absorbs it.
My jaw goes tight.
I keep watching through the mirror. The boy nudges him again, more obviously this time, then laughs. It’s small, low,aimed to shoot and not draw refs. Brick stands there like a tree in wind and then the wind moves on.
He climbs into the car and buckles with his eyes on the dashboard.
“So,” I say lightly, pulling out. “Who was the boy?”
He stares out the window. “Which boy?”
“The one who walked with you. Tapped your shoulder.”
“Oh.” He picks at the strap of his backpack. “Andrew. Andrew Beckett.”
“Is he in your class?”
“No. Recreation.”
“Rock wall,” I say, the words cold before they land.
“Yeah.”
“You friends?”
Brick’s silence has weight. “He said he’s sorry,” he says finally. “We’re friends now.”
