Page 29 of You Fall First

When I check the rearview, they’re both still standing there waving. For the record, my stomach is no less swirly than it was before.

Also, for the record, I forgot the milk.

Chapter Seven

Noah

“We’ve got this.”

That’s what I told Jo, and when I said the words, I honestly believed we did, in fact, have this. Once Dutton and I got home, though, and the day’s many distractions were over, he kept asking for his mom.

The kid’s smart, and I’m sure he could tell something was off. So I reminded him that we’d already agreed to call her in the morning. Too bad he’s got the patience of a four-year-old.

Mostly because he’s four.

So after multiple grape Otter Pops, one more viewing of Toy Story 3, plus a warm bath, he finally agreed to try to sleep. Try being the operative word. When he asked to read bedtime stories first, I let him pick out a couple of books. The choice was easy since I’ve got only four options here. The rest won’t be here until Paige’s moving van arrives.

Dutton sat on my lap in his pajamas, smelling shampoo-sweet. I read the words while he turned the pages. Thanks to those grape popsicles, the poor guy’s fingers were stained purple even after a bath. Same with his tongue, despite multiple toothbrushings.

A smile played across my lips as I remembered Jo saying this is our short, special time together. Just Dutton and Uncle Noah, until my sister returns and takes over. Between now and then, my only goal is to make this work.

After Dutton said his prayers, I got him tucked into bed in the room across from mine. I kissed his forehead, and he snuggled under the comforter without complaint. Bugs was right beside him, sharing the pillow.

Thank you, Jo.

I turned on the night light. Told him he was my favorite deputy.

An hour later, he threw up.

Purple.

And that’s how Dutton and I learned the hard way that ice cream and multiple popsicles before bed isn’t such a hot idea.

I won’t lie. The kid cried for a while, pretty hard, and my chest hurt from the guilt of not making better choices on his behalf. Still, I don’t have time to beat myself up. In the morning, when he talks to Paige, she’ll know what to say to get us through the last stretch before she flies back to him.

I got him cleaned up and the sheets changed, but now he’s refusing to sleep in the bed where he puked, so we curl up together on the recliner in the living room.

“You’re gonna be just fine,” I murmur, rubbing circles on his back. He presses his damp forehead into my chest. At least he’s not sobbing anymore.

“I want Mama,” he says with a watery sigh.

“Yeah. That makes two of us, buddy.”

I hold him until the space between his hiccupy sniffles lengthens. Eventually his breaths start coming slow and easy, then the weight of his body relaxes into mine. I could carry him back to bed, but he told me he didn’t want to stay in that room. If he wakes up there, he may not trust me. He fell asleep in my arms in this chair. Maybe letting him stay put is the safest option.

The cold reality of how little I know about raising kids seeps through me.

What would Jo do?

A soft voice inside my head says to trust my instincts. So I slowly rise, careful not to wake Dutton, and I gently set him back on the chair. He pulls his knees to his chest, curled up like a conch shell, and I slip a throw pillow under his head, then I cover him with a blanket.

Good enough.

I glance around the quiet living room. There are no nightlights in the space. Only slivers of moon shining through the shutters, and the sporadic glow cast by digital clocks on the oven, the microwave, and the coffeemaker. The coat rack by the door looks like a monster. The potted plant in the corner could be a skeleton. No way I’m leaving Dutton out here alone. So I slip to my bedroom, quickly change into loose joggers and a T-shirt, and grab my book off the nightstand.

Couch sleeping with James Patterson, it is.

I don’t remember drifting off, but after what feels closer to a couple of long blinks than any amount of decent shuteye, there’s a thud, followed by a stretch of silence, then a wail.