Into the Sunshine: Of Love and Loss Series Book Two

27

Later that day, Everett pulled onto his driveway, the steering wheel clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Iris hadn't left school yet. He'd stopped at her classroom to see if she'd changed her mind about riding home with him. But it'd been a wasted effort. She'd spared him the tiniest glance to acknowledge his presence before informing him, "I'll be a few hours yet. I've lessons to prepare."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Yet, by the stiff set of her shoulders and guarded angle to her jaw, Everett also recognized an unwinnable battle when he saw one. So he left, allowing the tension between them to fester under his skin. A dark, convoluted mix of emotions churned low in his gut like a tremendous tentacled beast flailing about, screaming to be loosed.

He wanted to punch something. Hard. Or to shout until he became incapable of uttering another sound and the dread constricting his heart in a vice grip faded into nothingness. But, most of all, he wanted everything between them back the way it was before.

Communicating any part of this with anyone willing to listen was pointless because he couldn't find the words to adequately describe or calm the raging terror inside him. And Iris seemed lost in her own world of denial and sorrow. Further complicating matters, every time either of them asked, "One through four," the other, without fail, now replied, "Three."

It was easier. Safer. Because it gave them the distance needed to guard themselves against the coming heartbreak.

"Are you planning on staying out here all night?" Daphne asked, tapping on the driver's side window and jolting Everett out of his maudlin thoughts. "Or only until the children decide they're old enough to feed and put themselves to bed?"

Grumbling a stream of expletives, Everett gathered his belongings, then exited the car and slammed the door shut. "I just got home. Am I not allowed to seek a moment of peace after a long, difficult day surrounded by other people's loud, misbehaving children?"

Daphne quirked a brow at him and crossed her arms under her bosom. He hated that particular look. It showed no matter how loudly he barked, she wasn't afraid he'd bite. "I see Captain Rattlesnake taught today's lesson—"

"Don't start," Everett growled, scowling, despising she was right. "It's been a hellishly long day. The last thing I need right now is—"

"For someone to tell you enough is enough, Mr. Grumpy—"

"DAPHNE," he snapped, fighting against the wail of despair worming its way up his throat. Don't break down in front of her, Everett's soul cried, even as the sob approached the back of his tongue. His panic spiraled, and he hurried toward the house, snarling over his shoulder, "What part of 'don't start' means 'please, continue to harangue me'?"

She hurried ahead and blocked his escape. Everett muttered another expletive and side-stepped. But Daphne followed and pressed a hand flat to his chest.

Pursing her lips into a firm line, she matched his scowl. "I was not lecturing you, Captain. Even though you desperately need one on the proper way to speak to your friends, who are trying their damndest to help you," she quietly fumed, her eyes sparkling with restrained anger and worry. "It is clear something is woefully wrong—"

"Thank you for watching the twins today," Everett grumbled, pushing her hand aside and storming toward the porch. "But you may leave—"

"STOP RUNNING," Daphne shouted, her voice so loud it made Everett's ears ring and brought him to an immediate standstill. "Tell me what has happened so we might find a way to solve it together."

Slowly, he turned and faced her, his blood boiling, pushing the sob closer to his lips and liberation. "Firstly," he said, his voice strained and tears stinging his eyes, "I am a cripple, incapable of running—"