“Which would matter if I was interested in hearing an explanation. I’m not.”

But he keeps talking anyway. “I was celebrating! I’m allowed to be happy—they dropped the heroin charges against me.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” I have to yell. “I’m the one who petitioned them to drop the charges. And let me just make sure I have this right—you thought it was a good idea to celebrate drug charges being dropped by going to a party where fucking drugs are everywhere? Do you really not see the problem with that?”

He just shrugs.

Twenty minutes of blessed silence later, I pull up in front of Milton’s mansion. With the car idling, I ask, “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know,” he answers petulantly. “France, I think. Mother said she needed a vacation.”

Probably from the dumbass that is her son.

But even still—his parents aren’t going to be getting any Parents of the Year awards.

“So . . . you guys, like . . . wanna come in and hang out?” Milton asks.

I rub my eyes. “No, Milton, I don’t want to fucking hang out with you.” I point my finger at him. “Just go inside, lock the door, and go to bed. Maybe you’ll wake up smarter tomorrow.”

He pouts. “All right.”

I make sure he gets into the house and then I pull away.

After a few minutes, Raymond says quietly, “He seems lonely.”

“He’s a fuckup.” No sympathy from me.

“He seems like a lonely fuckup.”

“Watch your mouth,” I bark over my shoulder.

“You just said it!”

“And when you’re thirty, you can say it as much as you like. Until then, keep the language PG.”

“That’s, like, the definition of hypocritical, Jake,” Raymond argues.

“Your point?” I shoot back.

Rory’s unusually quiet during the ride. And I wonder what he thinks about the things he’s seen. His family doesn’t have the same kind of money to burn as the Bradleys, but they’re close. And without even realizing it, I channel the Judge.

“Do you know why he’s a fuckup, boys?”

“Because he drinks and does drugs?” Raymond tries. “Only losers do drugs.”

There’s something wonderfully heartwarming about Raymond’s answer. So simply black-and-white—so innocent.

“That’s true. But that’s not the whole reason.” I turn onto Chelsea’s street and continue. “Milton promised me he’d stay home. And then he broke that promise. When you take everything else away—money, clothes, nice cars, big houses—all a man has is his word. That he says exactly what he means, and he does what he says. If a man doesn’t have his word, he’s not a man.”

They digest that for a moment. Then Rory asks, “Did your dad teach you that? Did he show you how to be . . . a man?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. And I wonder if he’s concerned about himself and his brothers and sisters growing up without their own father. With no example to guide them. So all I can give him is the truth.

“No, Rory. My dad was . . . the kind of man I didn’t want to be.” And then I add, “But there was another guy, a friend—the best kind of friend—who wouldn’t put up with any of my shit. He taught me everything I needed to know.”

• • •

Later that night, hours after the kids are in bed, Chelsea and I writhe between her sheets. It’s slow, almost sweet. Her long, pristine arms stretch out above her, glowing with smooth flawlessness. I kiss her neck, worshipping that skin, as my hips flex between her legs. I ride her in smooth, steady strokes, the muscles in my back tense with rising pleasure. She sucks on my earlobe, whispering how good it feels, and my thrusts quicken of their own accord. My body takes over—it’s mindless, carnal perfection that I never want to end.

But what a fucking ending it is.

Chelsea’s hands grip my ass, pushing me deeper as her own hips rise to take me in. We go over the edge together—she stiffens beneath me as I go taut above her, pulsing inside her, both of us silently gasping.

Afterward, I wrap around her from behind. She laughs at nothing and kisses my hands before tucking them under her cheek, like her own personal pillow. I inhale her scent as I drift off, my nose against the nape of her neck.

But a small, scared voice breaks the quiet.

“Nooo. Noooo . . .”

It comes from Regan’s baby monitor. Chelsea jerks, opens her eyes, and starts to drag herself out of bed. Without thinking, I kiss her temple. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get her.”

I slip on my pants and a T-shirt and pad barefoot up the stairs.

Regan is sitting up in her miniature toddler bed, eyes bleary, hair a mess, her room illuminated by a Cinderella nightlight. She raises her arms up as soon as she sees me.

And my mother’s words, from decades ago, come out of my mouth.

“What’s the trouble, bubble?”

I lift her up, her warm little body instantly clinging. I rub her back and smooth her hair. Regan’s lower lip trembles as she points to the long drapery in the shadowed corner of her room. “Nooo.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

I move the drapes, showing her there’s nothing hidden, nothing to be afraid of. She squeezes my shoulders with tiny arms and lays her head down against me. I sit in the rocking chair beside her bed, patting her back and whispering softly.