Deacon—and Graham and their other best friend, Knox, for that matter—had been in my life for as long as I could remember. Those three boys had been inseparable growing up, which meant all three were often found near Grey, acting as protective older brothers. Where Grey was, Jagger wasn’t far behind; and where Jagger went, I went too.

I’d never gotten comfortable enough to talk freely with the boys as I had with Grey, but they’d all been nice. Never hostile. Never like this.

That sickening feeling in my stomach magnified at Deacon’s hardened stare, and I didn’t understand it. It was as if I deserved this look—but I knew I couldn’t. There was nothing I had ever done to him.

“Um, he talks about the most random things. He has a very active imagination.” I hurried to finish, each word quieter than the previous one, then stared straight ahead at the road when Deacon’s aggravation became too much.

Deacon didn’t respond, and after a couple minutes, he straightened in his seat and pulled out his phone for a distraction.

And I was thankful for it. I was able to breathe easier knowing he wouldn’t try to talk to me again . . . knowing his eyes were busy.

But then the cemetery that rested just before town came into view, and I thought I might have preferred the sick twisting in my stomach from Deacon to the painful clenching of my heart over a guy who would never see or hold his son.

I TRAILED MY fingers absentmindedly through Keith’s hair as he slept sprawled across my lap that evening. We had unloaded everything and gotten my things situated in the warehouse I shared with Jagger and Grey, but I hadn’t been able to put off bringing Keith to the cemetery any longer. He’d been begging me ever since he’d woken up that afternoon, and no matter how much my heart rebelled against being here, I knew Keith wanted this . . . needed it.

I leaned back, putting my weight on one arm, and let my eyes move from my son to the stone just a foot from where the blanket ended that we were sitting on. The flowers Keith had picked out for him were resting across the base, and something about the look of them bothered me. Like this was all too fresh, too new.

Like I was being sucked back in time four years, to when Ben had been lowered into the ground.

Dozens of beautiful flowers had been on his casket, and even more had been placed on top of the freshly packed dirt. Now whenever we visited his grave with fresh flowers—and Keith demanded we bring new flowers every time—all I could think about was that day.

It felt like I’d never get away from it.

Like I’d never get away from the heartbreak and pain I’d gone through before and after he’d died, and then the years of secrets I’d gone through after.

Chapter Two

Charlie

May 25, 2016

“HAMMER SMASH!”

There are those moments when you know something is about to happen; something you should try to prevent. But that feeling is mixed with confusion as you’re slowly pulled from your dreams by the yell of your toddler, and it takes a second too long for your muscles to react. And then in a fraction of a second, you’re yanked into awareness, and your world is filled with the bright lights of your room . . . and pain.

My eyes cracked open, and I only had a fraction of a second to understand why my son was flying through the air, and to tense my body, before Keith slammed down onto my stomach. I choked out a cough and rolled, sending him sprawling onto the bed.

“Hammer smash! Hammer smash!” he shouted, and jumped for another round of jump-on-Mommy.

Now that I was more alert, I shot my arm out to prevent him from landing on me, and waited until I saw his blue eyes directly in front of my own before I released my hold on his waist.

“Mommy, I see you!”

“Morning,” I wheezed out, and rolled onto my back again.

Keith scrambled up until he was sitting on my stomach, and beamed down at me.

Despite the lingering pain in my stomach, my chest swelled with love for the little monster sitting on me. I ran a hand through his dark hair, and asked, “Who are you today?”

His face fell. “Mommy! Hammer!”

I feigned confusion. “Who has a hammer?”

“I do!”

“And who are you?”

“For, Mommy.” His tone dripped with disappointment that I hadn’t guessed.

“Oh . . .” I drew out the word, and nodded slowly. “I thought I might have seen a little Hulk in you this morning, with the ‘smash’ and all, but I was wrong. You are very clearly Thor.”

He sighed. “Mommy . . . Hulk smashes wiff his hands. For smashes wiff his hammer.”

I bit back my smile and tapped his nose. “Hits. Thor hits with his hammer. He also throws it.”

Keith took a second to take in my words, and then his eyes lit up. “Hammer frow!” he yelled, but just before he could throw an imaginary hammer at me, I threw my arm up in front of me.

“Captain America shield!”

Keith’s hand hit my arm, and grabbed tight. “Mommy!” he whispered in awe, then released my arm to pat it. “Dood shield.”

I pulled him close to kiss his forehead, then asked, “What time is it?”

He shrugged against me. “I dunno. But Uncle J is tryin’ to make breakfast.”

After months away with only weekends to see him, I wanted nothing more than to snuggle up for a few minutes with my son as I had the past mornings; but dangerous, dangerous words had just left his little lips.

Jagger messed up cereal. He’d burn the warehouse down if he actually attempted to cook something.

“Is he?” My voice rose in alarm as I hurried to move Thor off my stomach. “Well, I think we should go put a stop to that before we no longer have somewhere to live.”

Keith froze, and looked up at me with wide eyes once I was standing. “We can’t live here anymore?”

I bit back a curse, and bent so I was at eye level with him. “Of course we can. But Uncle J shouldn’t be cooking. Go stop him before . . . just go stop him.”

I gave Keith’s back a little pat as he turned, and watched him race from our room. “Uncle J, Uncle J! Mommy said stop! Uncle J! Hammer frow!”

A smile lit up my face as I listened to Keith’s voice trailing behind him.

Jagger had been brooding ever since I’d informed him that I was moving back to Thatch three days ago. But I would take his moody pouting if it meant I could wake up every day to “hammer smashes,” and hear my son’s sweet voice echo throughout the warehouse at all hours of the day.