Think Outside the Boss - Olivia Hayle Page 0,60

She was the one who couldn’t sit still. Who had a list as long as she was tall with all the places she wanted to visit and things to do.”

Freddie’s fingers tighten, and I look from Jenny’s familiar portrait to eyes that are soft, and strong, and kind.

“Joshua looks like her,” she says.

“He does.”

“He looks a bit like you, too.”

“Well, I am his uncle.”

A smile plays on her lips. “And his dad, as he informed me.”

I close my eyes. “I have to tell him one day how that sounds when he says it. Sometimes I imagine him telling teachers and other kids just that piece of information, no context. One day I’ll have police showing up here.”

“It’s sweet,” she says. “He didn’t seem upset when he told me.”

My fingers thread through hers into a latticework. “It’s not real to him.”

Freddie’s eyebrow rises in a silent question, so I serve up another painful slice of me, aided by the whiskey I’ve had and the kindness in her eyes. “He was just shy of turning three when Jenny and Michael died. He doesn’t remember them. All he knows about them comes from stories, things he’s been told. He knows he had a mother and a father before me.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. Go on, the gesture says. And I find the words pouring out. “Trying to keep their memory alive is impossible. I’ve tried. But talking about them is like talking about legends to him. He enjoys stories of their adventures, but they’re not… real. And if I force us to dwell on it, will I just make him sad? Do I keep reminding him of what he lost or let him embrace the life he has now?” I look back at Jenny on the bridge. She gazes boldly back at me through the void, but has no answers to give. No guidance or opinions on how I’m raising her son. The boy she’d called her greatest adventure.

“When he started calling me Dad… it was rough.”

“Was it?”

My gaze shifts to the black and white picture of Michael. His hangs higher than Jenny’s, his mouth serious but eyes smiling into the camera. Jenny took that picture, but she never told me where.

“He knows he doesn’t have a mother. I can’t take Jenny’s place. But I have taken Michael’s, in all the ways Joshua will remember.”

“You haven’t taken anyone’s place,” Freddie tells me. “You stepped in, at a time when it was necessary. Don’t you think Jenny and Michael would understand that?”

“They would.” I run my free hand over my face, all the ways I’m not good enough racing through my head. The nights I’m not home in time for dinner with Joshua and Marianne. The curious questions I haven’t answered as well as Jenny would have. A soft tug of Freddie’s hand takes us past the discarded poker table, toward the cloud couch in the corner.

We sink down onto the softness together, like we’ve done it a thousand times before. Like her body was meant to curl up next to mine.

And the words keep coming.

“I know every day that they’d do a better job, too. I know I’m a replacement. Being the best father to Joshua is something I’ll fail at.” I rest my head on top of hers, scenting floral shampoo and Frederica. “You came over for heat, and you got this heaviness instead.”

There’s a smile in her voice when she responds. “I don’t mind heaviness, Tristan. And I enjoy getting to know you better.”

My eyes drift closed at the words. Innocent, simple words, but they haven’t been spoken to me with sincerity for years. I wonder if they ever have.

Her hand drifts to the nape of my neck and fingers slide into my hair. Touch for touch’s sake.

“My last relationship ended when I adopted Joshua,” I admit.

Freddie’s fingers still for a moment, but then they plunge deeper, nails raking softly over my scalp. “Hmmm,” she says. “I imagine it was a difficult time.”

“I wasn’t a good partner in the months after Jenny and Michael died. And she… well. She apologized for it, but she wasn’t ready to become a stepmother.” I close my eyes, wondering at how a simple touch can feel so good. “I can see now that she wasn’t in it for the right reasons.”

Freddie makes another humming sound, shifting closer. Seconds later and her lips brush softly against the edge of my jaw. “The right reasons,” she repeats. “What are the wrong ones?”

“Money, prestige. Status.” I give a