Page 92 of Just One More Thing

When they handed me Hank, they didn’t just hand me a bulldog. They handed me something to care about when I didn’t feel like caring about much of anything. Something that needed feeding and walking and medicine and structure. Something stubborn enough to keep climbing into my lap until I got used to the idea of showing up again.

They gave me a reason to get out of bed.

The screen door slams behind me. A sleepy snort follows, then the click of nails on old wood. Then it slams again.

I turn. Mo is standing there with her hair wild from sleep, my hoodie hanging off one shoulder, one hand rubbing her eye.

Hank stands behind her like he’s been dragged out of bed against his will.

“You let me sleep,” she says, voice rough with morning.

“You looked peaceful.”

She comes straight toward me with grabby hands “Coffee. Need coffee.”

I hand over my mug. She cups it with both hands like survival depends on caffeine, and takes a long gulp with her eyes half closed.

I lean back against the rail. “So. Adult sleepover.”

“At least you didn’t stick my fingers in water.”

“It was one finger. One time. Like twenty years ago.”

“The female gender maintains records, Jake,” she says. “We archive offenses for future deployment.”

“Then may the record reflect it was a scientifically important experiment.”

“Okie-dokie.” She takes another sip.

I watch her glance down at herself. The stretched collar. The dog hair. A faint smear of bulldog drool drying near the hem. She notices all of it but doesn’t brush any off. Just shrugs and keeps drinking my coffee like she woke up here every morning of her life.

That does something to me I’m not going to unpack before breakfast.

“So,” she says, lowering the mug. “What are we doing today?”

We.

One word.

Still enough to land.

I take the mug back, mostly so I’ve got something to do with my hands before I hand it right back to her. “Top priority is locating the guys before they cause structural damage.”

Her mouth curves around the rim. “When you say guys, you mean Wayne?”

“Exactly.”

“Can we stop by Tall Tales first?”

I look pointedly at the mug in her hands. “You are literally drinking coffee while you ask that.”

“Jake.” She gives me a look over the mug. “Your coffee doesn’t count.”

Hank presses himself against her calves and lets out a half whine, half roar that covers breakfast, attention, and several complaints about nap time.

I slide an arm around her shoulders and kiss the side of her head. “Come on. Let me feed you both, then we’ll go get the coffee that counts.”

We walk toward The Point with the kind of ease that would scare me if I looked at it too hard.