Page 86 of One and Only

She gave me a quick, nervous look. “Do I have to tell him about the boy?”

I paused. “I think you should, yeah. He’ll want to know that someone was hurting you.”

Olive sighed but gave me a tiny nod.

She hopped out of the car, and I purposely took my time. As I cleaned up the ice cream bowls and walked them to the garbage bin next to the garage, I glanced at Beckett and Olive. Where he sat on the front porch, she was standing between his legs, her hands resting on his forearms, which had looped around her back. He listened intently, occasionally interjecting something but speaking too low for me to hear. After a few minutes, he wrapped his arms around Olive in a tight hug.

The fact that I paid attention to his face first, then Olive next, was my first sign that I was getting in just a touch over my head. Because the way the muscles in his arms flexed hardly registered as a distant third.

His face was bent in pain and frustration, and I knew Beckett was feeling that same type of helplessness that I had. Probably worse because it was actually his kid.

I hung back, the art bags in my hands, and he nudged Olive’s chin with his thumb, then gestured for her to go into the house. She gave me a little smile over her shoulder but did as her dad asked.

When he turned his focus back onto me, I swallowed hard.

Oh yeah.

I was in trouble.

“So I guess he went into the office after I left, huh?” I asked weakly.

Beckett’s eyes never wavered. “The dean called me about fifteen minutes before you got home, just after school got out. His parents are furious.”

Swallowing back any sort of defensive reflection, I fought to keep my face steady.

“You threatened a little kid?” he asked, voice low and disbelieving.

I tilted my head back and forth. “Not technically, I just asked him a hypothetical question that could’ve been … misconstrued as a threat in the right circumstance.” But my voice tapered off becauseokay fine, it sounded way worse now that I was standing in front of him.

Beckett’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what happened.”

He was still sitting on the top step of the front porch, and because I was awkwardly standing in front of him with the bags in my hands, I felt a bit like I was in front of the Spanish Inquisition. All I was missing was the giant spotlight aimed at my face to really send this thing home.

“Can I join you?” I asked.

He sighed, scooting over to make room. I set the bags down on the porch and took my seat next to Beckett. He was close enough that I could feel the heat from his body but far enough away that we weren’t touching.

It felt very symbolic, and I tried not to read into it too deeply.

I told him everything that happened in the office, about my conversation with the dean, and then what I saw on the playground when we were leaving.

He listened quietly.

“I saw him knock over that other little girl, and I saw Olive’s face, and I just … I couldn’tstandit.” I glanced over at him. “She’s crying in my back seat, and she looked so sad, and she hugged me so tight when I got there. The dean knew what that little punk did, and she can’t do anything about it, which I get, okay? I get it. The school’s hands are tied. But my brothers got in trouble more than once because they’d take on some bully who picked on me or Adaline or Poppy, and they didn’t care about the consequences.”

“Butyou”—he interrupted—“are an adult. You’re not another kid.” His eyes seared into mine. “You think it doesn’t kill me to hear her say she was scared? That she hid under a slide because she didn’t want anyone to see her cry? Of course I want to get in that kid’s face, but Ican’t.”

His hands were tight and tense as he spoke, and I had the feeling that he was holding his entire body rigid. That all that anger, all that helpless frustration had nowhere to go.

“You’re not her parent,” he added quietly. “No matter how any of this feels, no matter what role we’re playing every day, you are not her stepmom, Greer, and it’s not your responsibility.”

My eyes stung, and embarrassment prickled like ice all over my arms and hands.

The breath tangled in my lungs, unable to come out clean or easy or smooth.

It wasn’t anger or defensiveness; it was humiliation.

But underneath it, I couldn’t help but pry open a truth that he didn’t want to admit.

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