Page 49 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
The morning after Lake Day, Golden Heights feels rinsed clean. The sky is a polished blue coin; the cottonwoods along my street hiss with a slow, easy wind. People wave a little longer than usual as I pull out of the driveway—one guy in a fishing hat gives me a thumbs-up I haven’t earned but know the reason for anyway. Word travels fast here, faster than a wake across the cove.
Brick hums under his breath in the passenger seat, that tuneless kid hum he does when he’s somewhere else entirely.
Flashes of the lake ambush me: little hands, a silt plume, salt on my tongue that isn’t salt; Sabrina coughing water, her mother’s hands shaking on her cheeks. And later, the shaved-ice stand—the way Jasmine looked at me over a dome of lemon-lime ice like she’d forgotten how to blink.I care about you,I told her. What the heck was I thinking?
Maybe the truth. Maybe something too big for a line at the marina.
We pull up to the school. Brick stares out the window like he can will himself invisible, and an old ache grips my ribs.
“Has Andrew Beckett bothered you lately?” I finally ask.
A tiny shake of his head. I can’t tell if it’s truth or training. Brick is brave in ways that make no sound. Sometimes that scares me more than any scream.
“If something’s going on, you’ll tell me. Right?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I promise.” He tries on a smile; it doesn’t quite fit yet.
I park and climb out. He blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Just need to talk to your vice principal.” I try to make it sound like I’m checking on the cafeteria meatloaf. “Not about you.”
Suspicion flickers, but he shoulders his backpack and disappears into the stream of kids. I watch until the doors swallow him, then lock the car and go hunting for Riley Jenkins.
Riley listens like it’s her whole job. Which, I guess, it is. Hands folded neatly on the desk, knuckles lined up like dominoes.
“I understand you recently had a… spat with Mr. Beckett,” she says.
A humorless sound slips out.Spat.Right.
“I want you to know I’m up to speed. We missed it. That’s on us. I’ll keep an extra eye on Brick. He won’t deal with anything like that again.”
I keep my arms crossed because I don’t trust my hands not to shake. Rage wants motion; it wants to throw itself at something. Instead, I sit and swallow hard.
“You’ll watch out for him?” My voice scrapes lower.
“I promise.” She leans forward a fraction. “The bullying lasted because we didn’t know. That’s our failure—my failure. If you want to press charges or—”
“I just want it never to happen again.” My voice goes quiet, brittle as glass. “He was pushed. In your program. No one noticed. What else did we miss?”
I stop there. I’ve walked that spiral before; it doesn’t help Brick or me. It only eats time and sleep.
“Mr. Vaughn.” Riley’s face softens but doesn’t go slack. “It won’t happen again.”
I rub my forehead. I didn’t see it either. My son moved through this house like a ghost, and I didn’t hear his feet. That’s on me. Golden Heights is small—no excuses for that kind of blind.
“I’m not pressing charges,” I say, leaning in. “Not going to make his life harder just to win a point in court.”
“I understand.” She exhales. “We’ll do better. I’ll do better.”
***
My phone buzzes. Dispatch. I stand, nod, and head for the door. Her gaze follows me down the hallway; I hope it meanspromise kept, not justpromise made.
A 9-1-1 call in the rougher blocks always slams my heart into fifth gear—no matter how calm the voice on the other end sounds, and this one isn’t calm.
“Help! Please help! He’s going to die—”
“Dispatch, what’s my situation?” I radio as the houses thin and the scrub thickens. Dry yards, chain link, trikes on porches. Red rock jags at the horizon, heat shimmers above it.
