I’m honestly not sure how to respond to that, so I settle for a very mature shrug.
She scoffs and shakes her head at me. I see pity in her eyes, and I don’t like it one bit. Mainly because I feel like I need it, and I despise feeling like I need anyone’s help.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Broaden.” She leans in close to me, speaking low in my ear and alerting my senses to the fact that she smells as good as she looks. “You’re going to need it when you try to walk out of here with your head shoved so far up your butt.”
I’m a statue as I watch Evie Jones and Charlie walk out of the coffee shop, her sundress swaying with her hips, and my daughter’s angry gaze burning a hole in the side of my face.
Chapter Three
JAKE
Sam doesn’t speak to me all the way home. Doesn’t even take the bait when I ask if she wants to stop by her favorite ice cream shop and get a double scoop. Shawn Mendes’s falsetto is blaring over the speakers, and I honestly have no idea how else I can redeem myself in her eyes.
I’m practically screaming LOVE ME to my ten-year-old daughter, and she’s plugging her tiny little pierced ears, holding all the power.
How did this happen? How did I get here? Shouldn’t she be the one begging me for mercy after the stunt she just pulled?
Instead, I’m seconds away from offering to clean her room and do her homework for a month. I’m a total schmuck, but I don’t care. Sam and I have always had a close relationship. Even before Natalie left, I was the one who Sam gravitated toward. I’ve always been able to see how brightly I shine in her eyes. But right now, they look dim, and she looks more disappointed in me than ever. I will do anything to see her smile right now.
“I’ve gotta stop off at the office real quick to pick up a few plans,” I tell her as I pull up in front of Broaden Homes.
It’s my residential architectural firm—as in, I built this little company from the ground up. It’s not the biggest firm in town, but it’s not the smallest either. Honestly, I’m doing pretty well for myself, and as I walk through the large, light-oak doors of the historic downtown building I renovated and turned into our offices, I feel a shot of pride. I also feel a little longing.
Ever since Natalie left and Sam was diagnosed with epilepsy, I haven’t been able to devote as much time to the business as I would like. The two other architects I have employed here are working double-time to pick up the extra slack I keep dropping. But being a single parent in the summertime is hard enough. Add in a newly discovered disability and an endless string of sleepless nights, and you get nearly impossible.
“Jake, what are you doing in here today?” asks Hannah, one of my two head architects on staff, as she steps out of her office.
It’s a smallish building with only three smaller offices for the architects and one large common space for meetings and assistants to work. But it's a beautiful space, even if I do say so myself. Floor to ceiling windows line the front of the building; the flooring is made of wide, natural plank wood; and a massive, 15-foot-long farmhouse table is in the center of the common space for meetings.
“I just wanted to stop in and grab those plans of the Halbert’s build.” And feel like myself again for a minute.
Hannah levels me with a look before putting her hands on her hips. “I thought you were giving that project over to Bryan?”
“I was. I did.” I run my hand through my hair, wishing I didn’t have to get through a customs checkpoint before making it into my own office. “Last night I thought of a few ideas for the mudroom problem we were having, and I thought I might take a look at the plans again. I think if I move it—”
“That sounds like something Bryan—the man you handed the project over to because you were so exhausted you were falling asleep on your desk in the middle of the afternoon—should be worrying about.”
I’m mad that she’s right. I’m exhausted and stretched thin. It’s why I decided to cut back my hours, delegate more projects to Bryan and Hannah, and devote more of my time to Sam this summer. But it’s hard. I love my job, and I love giving my brain the ability to create. Forcing it to turn off like this feels like I’m cutting off my leg. I don’t know how to walk anymore.
“Okay, you’re right. Let me just look at those plans really fast, and then I’ll be on my way.”
Hannah gives me a flat smile that alerts me to what’s coming. She steps toward me, puts her hands on my shoulders, and physically turns me toward the door. “Go home, Jake. This is your day off. Let us do our jobs.”
I’m letting her push me through the door, but I’m not happy about it. “But you’re not doing your job; you’re doing mine. I don’t like it, Hannah. I feel like I’m working you guys into the ground.”
“Neither of us has kids or spouses, Jake. We like being worked into the ground by our taskmaster boss. It gives us something to gripe about when we go home to our families at Christmas,” she says, pushing even harder now.
“I’m going, I’m going.” There’s a good chance Hannah will kick me if I don’t leave now.
I get back in my truck and look to Sam, waiting for her to smile up at me like she usually does. She doesn’t, and honestly, it’s the most annoying thing in the world to have a ten year old give me the silent treatment. I let her, though, because I’m not entirely sure I don’t deserve it.
Miss Jones’s sweet southern drawl pulls at my memory. You’re going to need it when you try to walk out of here with your head shoved so far up your butt.
Pulling into the driveway at our house, I click the button to open the garage and notice that my sister June is sitting on the front porch swing zeroed in on her phone. I arranged for her to come stay with Sam for a few hours so that I can go to the grocery store and shop in peace. And wow that statement makes me feel like the physical manifestation of my mom from twenty years ago.
Do I give my man card over to someone directly or mail it in somewhere?
But honestly, I don’t know what I would have done without the help of my sister (and my other three sisters) this past year. At one point in my life, I lamented the fact that I had four of them—all younger than me. Growing up, it was like I was always sneaking into a sorority house, trying not to get noticed as I tiptoed past each of their rooms. Someone was always crying. Always heartbroken. Always threatening to run some dumb teenage guy over with her little Honda Civic.
Now that we are all grown adults, living our own lives, I wish they would move in with me and never leave.
June glances up when she sees us approach and smiles wide. It falters when she sees Sam open the truck door and dive out before I’ve even had a chance to put it in park. It’s as if I’ve kidnapped her and she would rather open the door and hurl herself out onto the concrete while driving 70 MPH down the interstate than live the rest of her life with me.
Sam’s flip-flops flap angrily, and her ponytail swings like a pendulum all the way into the house. She doesn’t even look back at me—just slams the door shut behind her.
I wince a little and turn to my baby sister whose eyes are now as wide as saucers.
“What in the world was all that about?” she asks as I make my way up the front steps and join her on the porch swing.