Page 70 of You Fall First

She’s always there in the doorway, listening to every detail of his painstaking, four-year-old replay. The tightness in my chest begins to loosen, and I’m flooded with gratitude for everything Jo’s done. For Dutton. Paige. Me.

Then she leaves, and a twinge of loneliness pinches at that gratitude.

The truth is, I’ve always wanted a house crowded with people and laughter and love. Like the home I was raised in. The house my parents built. And since I wasn’t there for them in the end, the least I can do now is take up the reins they left behind.

Tonight, those reins looked like bringing home McDonald’s.

Happy Meals for the win.

The door stays shut, though. And even before I step inside, a chill spikes goose bumps on my neck.

Jo’s waiting in the foyer. No toys strewn about. No Toy Story on the flatscreen. Not even Grumpy Monkey open to Dutton’s favorite page on the couch.

“He’s all right,” she says, before I can ask. “We just had a hard afternoon.”

I set the bag of food on the table. “But Dutton’s safe?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, but her voice is small and sad. The last thing I want is for this arrangement to cause her a single ounce of discomfort.

“What happened?” The question comes out gruffer than I’d like.

She quickly gives me the rundown. Pet store. Puppy. Meltdown.

“It wasn’t about the dog,” she says.

“Yeah, I figured.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and her eyes lock with mine. “He wants to go home, Noah. To Mayville.”

“Whoa.” All the air’s punched out of my lungs.

“He’ll get over it,” she adds in a rush, like that makes any kind of difference. “He’s just missing his mama. And his own bed. The rest of his clothes and toys and books. But all that stuff will be here soon. Including Paige.”

“Home.” I shake my head. “I took that away from him.”

“Kids move all the time,” she says. “For all kinds of reasons.”

“Sure, they do. But they're moving because of me. Paige would’ve stayed, but I pushed her. My choice.”

My fault.

Jo shifts her weight. “I shouldn’t have taken him to that pet store.”

“Yeah, well. Like you already said. It’s not about the puppy.”

Her shoulders sink. “I only told you because I knew Dutton would. He always tells you. Literally everything. He loves you so much.” Her breath hitches. “That hasn’t changed.”

“No, but everything else about his life has.” My ribs start to compact, like the bones are a vise.

“I’d better go see him.”

She nods toward the hall. “He’s in his room.”

The door’s cracked, and I clench my teeth, steeling myself to face Dutton. I won’t let this be about me or my fragile feelings. He’s a kid. I’m a grown man.

“Hey, bud.” The hinge squeaks when I step inside. Something else I need to fix. Dutton’s curled on the bed, clutching Bugs, facing the window.

I clear my throat, hoping to get the rest of the grit out. “I brought nuggets.” It’s probably the dumbest thing I could say, but that fits, since I’m monumentally blowing this.