Page 4 of Falling for the Bear Dad

I kicked the tire and it felt so good to have a concrete thing to take out my frustration on, so I kicked it again.

Okay, that didn’t feel so good.

“Come on. We’ve come this far. You can’t do this to me.” I leaned on the roof of the car but didn’t cry, not surprisingly. I’d learned not to let it show when I was frustrated. Weeping made Jacob furious.

I couldn’t figure him out. I’d tried endlessly.

Chapter Four

Greyson

After we got home, I made grilled cheese and tomato soup for Benji and me. He had a big glass of milk. I had scotch. I’d never get drunk while in charge of my little one, but it would take the whole bottle to make a dent in my damned shifter physiology. The drink was more symbolic than anything. We sat together at the little table in the kitchen in our regular seats, the third empty as always. A glaring reminder, to me at least, that a member of our family was missing. How many times, in the first weeks after her passing, had I wanted to set one more place?

Shaking myself free of thoughts that would steal my son’s regained joy, I took a bite of my sandwich. “Yum! How is yours?”

“Good, Daddy.” He set his spoon down and picked up his golden triangle of cheese and bread. “Yum, too.”

“Eat it all up. It’s almost time to play in the tub.”

He made monster noises and he devoured his sandwich and pointed to his soup bowl.

I nodded. “Just this once.” Always just this once. Ever since he discovered how fun it was to pick up the bowl and drink down the soup. Not too hot. I never gave it to him warm enough to hurt.

When every drop was gone, I carried our dishes to the sink and returned to take his hand. His bath was the highlight of the evening, mounds of bubbles barely able to hide the flotilla of toy boats and ducks I helped him dump in from the big blue bucket. He played, and I sat on the closed toilet seat, loving his resilience. Awash in his laughter. Trying not to chuckle as the yellow ducks challenged the blue ones to a sailboat race. Knowing I’d be mopping up the floor and not minding in the least.

Wishing I had someone to share the joy in my son with. It seemed wrong to have it all to myself.

After twenty minutes or so, I squirted some shampoo/body wash onto a cloth and lathered him up. He took the cloth and washed all his ducks before I got him out and dried him then helped him into his pajamas and tucked him in.

Two, maybe three stories later, my boy was out, and I tiptoed to the door to go finish up the chores in the bathroom and kitchen. I still didn’t have a sitter for tomorrow, so it would have to be Sonia, but I promised myself I’d leave work early and get started on finding a nanny. We didn’t exactly live in a huge city likely to have an agency for that, but I’d make some calls, check some websites, learn how it worked.

With Benji off to dreamland, the house was quiet. A good thing, if I wanted him to sleep, but not so good for keeping my mind off my troubles.

I still thought of her every day, but unfortunately time did seem to heal, and it wasn’t every minute of every day anymore. Without Benji, who knew? But as his dad, I couldn’t let my grief color our life, or Jeanine would come down from wherever she was and ensure that I knew my mistake. She loved me, but she adored Benji.

Not fated but mates by choice, we were still so happy together, and I’d thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives in the cozy den we’d created. With Benji, with other children. With friends and family all around.

And then?

As if my heart wasn’t shredded into jagged strands, on her deathbed, my beautiful, stubborn wife extracted a promise from me that I would never be able to keep. Her gorgeous blonde hair had thinned and dulled, not from treatment, as it might have in a human, but from the progress of the disease. The healer said chemo would not work on us, nor any other human type of medicine. He gave us what he had, but it was palliative at best. We had found what ailed her too late, or it was moving too fast. Both, probably. It didn’t matter because, either way, it stole her from us.

In a matter of weeks, she’d grown thin, as if the disease stripped the flesh from her very bones. This rare shifter disease’s cruelty knew no bounds. I could deny her nothing, sitting beside her on the bed, holding her hand.

“Not that,” I whispered when she made her request. “Anything else.”

“Only that.” She squeezed my fingers, so weak I could barely feel it. “Promise me. Swear to it. I can’t go on in peace if I’m worried about you.”

“Not about Benji?”

“No.” A slight headshake accompanied the word. “He has you.”

“I have him,” I protested.

“And one day he will grow up and leave the den. Swear on my life.”

“Jeanine!”

“Do it.” Her cough tore me up. And her. “Greyson, please. I don’t want to waste time arguing.”