Catch a Falling Star (5 page)

“You did?” The scent of Parmesan chicken filled the kitchen. “I forgot.”

Now who was lying?

She shrugged out of her tailored teal coat, draping it across the back of one of the white ladder-back chairs, knowing Logan would follow behind her and hang it in the foyer closet. “Javan, Mamá's home.”

Footsteps pounded down the hallway—away from her.

What had the counselor said? “He's the child, Evie, you're the adult. He's angry with his birth mom for abandoning him, not you. Remember that she's not here and you are.”

And so Evie got all the rejection. All the tears. And Logan was Superdad. Well, Super-Almost-Dad. All the man needed was a cape.

Before she realized what he was doing, Logan stood behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling her close. He nuzzled her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “Missed you today, babe.”

She leaned against him, inhaling the scent of peppermint from the gum he chewed nonstop all day as he worked on clients' websites. “Miss you every day, babe.”

“How's the good doctor doing?”

“It was a busy day—a couple of emergencies.” Evie closed her eyes, acknowledging the ache in the small of her back, the base of her neck. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”

Her husband's whisper sent another tingle of warmth across her neck. “He's watching you.”

Evie opened her eyes halfway to see Javan peering at them from the end of the hallway. “Hey, sweetie. Mamá's home.”

His head, topped with a mass of black curls, disappeared.

“I've got pizza.”

Javan's eyes and nose came into view again.

“Don't bribe him, Evie.” Logan followed his whispered words with a soft kiss on her neck. “Let him come to you.”

“If I wait for him to come to me because he wants to, he'll never come.”

“Yes, he will.”

“No, he won't.” She pushed away from the security of Logan's arms. “We go through this every night for—how long? The past six months?”

“Give it time.”

“I have.”
She pulled her hair out of the rubber band securing it in a low ponytail, running her fingers through the strands. Ah, relief. “I will. I'm just . . . tired. Long day.”

She watched Javan scoot on his bottom down the wooden floor toward the kitchen, inch by inch. What happened to the
days when he used to run to the door when she came home? What was she doing wrong? Maybe the truth was she deserved to be treated like this.

Evie shoved the thought to the darkest corner of her mind. It couldn't be the truth. “Come on and get dinner, niñito.”

“I'm not a baby.” Javan stopped. “I'm six.”

“Yes, you're my muchacho grande.” Evie walked to the pantry and searched for paper plates.

“I'm not your muchacha grandie.”

She gripped the edge of the shelf.
Let it go, girl. Let it go.
He wasn't being mean on purpose. He was just working things out—and she was his target.

“Okay, you can be Daddy's big boy tonight. How's that?”

She slid open the pizza box, the aroma of basil and oregano simmered in tomato sauce and then slathered with melted cheese urging her to indulge in another piece even before they sat around the table. “How many slices do you want, Javan?”

“Don't want any. Daddy made chicken.” He stood behind her, his tone a foreshadowing of future teenage rebellion—if they survived that far into the future.

Evie pulled out a single slice of pizza, placing it on a plate and carrying it to the table nestled in the breakfast nook. “That's fine. You and Daddy can have chicken while Mamá has pizza.”

As Logan cut bits of baked chicken coated with Parmesan and Italian dressing, Evie removed the top layer of cheese from her pizza and nibbled on it. She watched her husband place a kiss on Javan's cheek as he set his plate in front of him, imagining the softness of his skin. She closed her eyes when Logan snuck in a quick tickle, relishing the giggles that erupted from the little boy. If only she could tuck each one into her heart, save each one as an antidote to the sulky glances he gave her.

She needed to snap out of it. She was the adult here, not another six-year-old who could stomp off in a huff because Javan didn't want to play with her. Javan clung to her when they first took him in as a foster child. Surely his negative attitude would change if she loved him enough.

When Logan began to clear off the table, Evie stood, too. “Why don't I give Javan his bath tonight?”

She couldn't blame her husband for the way his hazel eyes widened in surprise, his eyebrows skyrocketing. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “It'll be fun.”

Logan set Javan on the floor. “Hear that, buddy? Mom's gonna give you a bath tonight.”

“No! You do it, Daddy!” With those words, Javan ran down the hallway, his footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Let the fun begin.

By the time she got upstairs, Javan had tossed his tennis shoes, jeans, Elmo shirt, and underwear all over the bathroom, and dumped his plastic toys into the empty tub. She ran the water, testing the temperature.

“Ready to get in, Javan?”

“I want Daddy to help me.”

“But I thought it would be fun to help you with your bath tonight.” She picked up one of the bright-colored musical dolphins floating in the water. “Want to play dolphins?”

“Nuh-uh.”

She tapped the dolphin on its head so that it played a note. Really, Javan was too old for these now, but he loved them.

“Well, let me get you in the tub.”

Javan held himself stiff as she picked him up. What happened to the little boy who used to love to cuddle? Would she ever find him again?

Once in the tub, he found a blue measuring cup and filled it up with water. Dumped it out. Filled it up. Dumped it out.

All the while ignoring her.

She picked up his clothes and tossed them in the wicker hamper, keeping an eye on the little boy who seemed oblivious to the fact she was even in the room. Sitting back down, she wet the washcloth and added a liberal dose of body wash.

“Okay, time to get clean.”

“I want Daddy to do it!”

She was beginning to hate those six words.

“Javan, Mamá is doing the bath tonight. Let's wash your neck.” She tried to make a game of it. “You know that's where the dirt likes to hide. Tilt your head back.”

“I want Daddy!”

“Javan!” Her voice seemed to bounce off the bathroom tiles. “Let. Me. Do. This. Now.”

She hadn't yelled. Not really. But still, Javan's eyes widened, filling with tears in the same instant. Within seconds, his wail drowned the echo of her harsh words.

Logan appeared in the doorway. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Evie stood. “Why don't you finish his bath tonight?”

“Evie, come on. He needs time with you—”

“Not when I make him cry, Logan. I'll try again tomorrow.”

She knew her husband wouldn't follow her to their bedroom—he couldn't, not with Javan in the tub. Evie shut the door, locking it. She walked past the wall that held the framed photo from their wedding day, back when all the promises seemed so ready to come true, and into their small bathroom and sat on the side of the tub. As she twisted the hot-water handle, she ignored the pressure of tears building in her throat, demanding release as a sob.

What a waste. She'd cried buckets of tears, gallons of tears, in her life and they hadn't changed a thing. Not her past mistakes, not her present situation.

She uncapped the bottle of her favorite bubble bath and dumped a stream of it into the tub, the scent of coconut and lime flowing into the room. Evie watched bubbles froth on the surface of the water. She was too tired to go all 'round the be-a-good-mommy mulberry bush. Maybe tomorrow.

Or maybe not.

This adoption had seemed so right after months—years—of infertility. But maybe she wasn't meant to be a mother. Maybe that was her penance for one long, long-ago mistake. It seemed too high a penalty . . . but apparently, she didn't get to choose.

“M
rs. Jamison, this is Griffin. Griffin Walker—Ian's brother.”

Griffin tucked his iPhone underneath his chin, anchoring it to his shoulder so he could unwrap the grilled chicken pita he'd bought for dinner a couple of nights ago. It would do for breakfast. The aroma of butter, onions, garlic, and roasted chicken drifted up, causing his stomach to rumble. At least it wasn't drive-through food. He'd made Ian get out of the car and walk into Pita Pit with him to order dinner.

“Griffin.” Something in the woman's warm greeting tugged at Griffin's heart. Reminded him of coming home to an afternoon snack. And his mom. “Mac talked about Ian last night during dinner. I'm so glad they keep in touch through Skype and texting.”

Griffin leaned against the Sandstone Corian kitchen counter, the pita in one hand, his phone in the other. Since his parents'
death, had he eaten a meal sitting down? He swallowed a too-large bite of pita, dropping the food to grab his
THE SKY IS NOT MY LIMIT. IT IS MY PLAYGROUND
mug and wash it down with a gulp of coffee.
Hot.
He forced himself to swallow the liquid even as it scalded his tongue and throat. “Yeah. I just have to make sure my brother gets offline and does his homework.”

“Ian is a good student. Your mom and dad were always so proud . . .” She paused. “I'm so sorry. I know thinking about them must be painful.”

Well, yes. And no. Because when thoughts of his parents flared in his mind, Griffin doused them with a dose of harsh reality. His parents were dead. He couldn't change that fact. He had to stay focused. Take care of Ian. Try to get his career back on course.

“So how is Ian?”

“He's better today, but the other night . . . Mrs. Jamison, did you know about Ian's allergies?” Griffin leaned against the breakfast bar. Sitting down, standing up—these days it was easier to avoid basic moves like that.

“Of course. Ian's had serious allergies and asthma ever since he came to live with your parents. We always had a medical power of attorney when Ian stayed with us. I'm sure it's all documented in the medical papers in your parents' files.”

His parents' files. Sure. Those would be a big help. Except after the funeral he put his parents' stuff in storage, closing up their house and pocketing the key. He stuck any of the papers the lawyer labeled
IMPORTANT
in a corner in his den—one of the rooms still unpacked. The only thing Ian brought with him besides his clothes was his bedroom furniture.

“You did read through the files, didn't you?”

“Not exactly. I've been . . . busy.” Griffin rewrapped the half-eaten pita and laid it on the countertop. Maybe he'd have more of an appetite after this phone call.

“And Ian didn't mention anything?”

“Not until yesterday morning—after a pretty scary episode at a restaurant when he ate some guacamole and had an allergic reaction.”

The woman gasped. “Is he all right?”

“As far as I can tell.” Griffin noticed the white cereal bowls and mismatched spoons piled in the stainless-steel sink, along with all of his glasses. A total of six of them. “We spent the rest of the evening in the ER. Now I need to get him a doctor here in the Springs.”

“Maybe a friend could recommend one?”

He hadn't thought of that. Kendall Haynes's receptionist handed him a list of potential doctors for Ian—as if Griffin could sit around and spend his days on hold waiting for a doctor to talk to him. Maybe his friend Doug could recommend someone local. And did Ian really need to see a specialist? Couldn't he see a regular doc? Or a pediatrician? Wait . . . did teenagers even go to the pediatrician? There was so much he didn't know.

“Do you want the name of Ian's doctor here? I'm sure he can talk with you about Ian's history.”

“That might be a good idea.” Hot water splashed across his hands as he rinsed off the dirty dishes and piled them in the dishwasher. It wouldn't be full, but he'd run it anyway.

“Let me get his number. We use the same doctor your parents do. Did.”

He heard Mrs. Jamison opening and closing several drawers, mumbling, “Now where did I put that card?”

“Wait. Mrs. Jamison, that's not really the reason why I called . . .”

“Is there something else you need?”

He needed to not blow this next part. “Ian is having a hard time adjusting. To school. To Colorado Springs. He misses,
well, everyone. The move, on top of our parents' deaths, is harder for him than he expected.”

“I had no idea.” Mrs. Jamison clucked sympathetically. “I mean, Mac mentioned once or twice . . . but I assumed living in Colorado would get easier as time went on.”