The kids are quietly playing when I finally make it back down to the living room. It’s like stepping into a different universe after all that’s happened upstairs. The toe-curling, wild sex in the bathroom. Matt’s explanation about the dress and his past behavior. His small breakdown, the scar on his wrist.

The admission he’d tried to kill himself… but also that he didn’t.

Didn’t go through with it.

Not to the end, at least. The scar isn’t that long, doesn’t seem that deep. He has none on his other wrist.

And despite the despair that filled me when I saw the scar, what he said filled me with hope.

I’m helping Mary dress up one of her dolls in a red dress with Cole tugging on my sleeve to get my attention, when Matt finally comes down the stairs. Good. I was starting to worry all over again.

You’re in too deep, Octavia. What’s wrong with you? Stop it.

But he’ll be late for work, and I don’t want any more stress piling up on his shoulders. He’s got too much on his plate already, and God that breakdown in his room…

And this is why you’re in too deep for your own good.

Guy’s an adult. Older than you, even. He’s been dealing with his wife’s death for years now. He’s probably had worse breakdowns.

He’ll be fine.

Yet my heart aches for him. I want to lighten his burden. And I want to be the one to make him better.

Jesus. This is more dangerous territory than I thought. More like a sinkhole of the heart. Emotional quicksand.

Oh God, I’m in love with him.

I suck in a sharp breath.

He’s grabbing his truck keys from the bowl by the entrance, raking a hand through his messy hair. Then he glances at me, a warm spark in his dark eyes, a softness that’s rarely there, and it’s as if my whole world had shifted on its axis.

He was always hot, from the first time I saw him, but now… Now he’s coming into focus, slowly but surely, one detail at a time. The crease between his dark brows speaks of sorrow, the shadows in his eyes all make sense. His attitude, his violence, his words, his actions.

It’s becoming clear to me that I’ll never meet another man like him. He’s damaged, and hurting inside, he’s lashing out, but he’s strong and he has a gentle side he doesn’t show to many. He’s been wounded by the twists of fate, but he’s still hanging on.

And don’t ask me how I know, but I think he’s the one for me.

* * *

The kids are feeling much better today. They’re still a bit cranky, easily tired and impatient. Mary throws a magnificent tantrum when her mug falls and shatters. It wasn’t her favorite mug or anything, but she can’t get over the poor mug breaking.

And then Cole has a whole rolling-on-the-carpet-and-screaming fit when I pour him his apple juice because he wanted to do it himself. Even though I gave him the bottle and he didn’t want to even touch it.

Never mind. Doesn’t have to make sense. I remember this, especially from when Merc was little. That kid was a walking tantrum. Weird how he turned out so mellow and quiet now he’s all grown up.

“So there’s still hope for you,” I tell Cole, lifting him from the floor and into my arms. Ugh he’s heavy. “Maybe there’s hope for all of us.”

I think about that as I carry him to the kitchen, a wailing Mary following us—“Why are you carrying Cole? I want you to carry me too. S’not fair!”—and to the table where I plop him on a chair.

Then I turn, lift Mary and seat her in the chair across from him.

“Eat your food,” I say, “and I will tell you a story.”

“Don’t want a story!” Mary sniffles.

“No wanna,” Cole stands by his sister, suddenly supportive.

Or maybe it’s just the start of another screaming fit.

Oh boy. “It’s your favorite story, the one about the train that—”

“Don’t want that!” Cole’s voice is rising.

Mary’s mouth hangs open. She looks confused—maybe because normally she’s the one who doesn’t want to hear the story about the poop train.

Yeah, I’m trying to potty train Cole and made a little story about it. He likes it, but resists my efforts to wean him off his diapers.

“If you don’t want the poop train, what story do you want?” I sit down beside then and ladle their mac and cheese into their plates. It’s their comfort food, and I made it for this precise reason since they’ve been sick, to cheer them up, but they both give it suspicious looks.

It’s going to be one of those days… I love being a nanny to these kids, and they are so clever and affectionate and cute, but today they’re a total frigging pain in the neck.

I take a deep breath and smile. “How about the one about the princess and the—”

“I want to talk to grandma,” Cole says.

A small silence spreads.

Mary stares at him hard, as if trying to read his thoughts running inside his head, and then says, “Me too. I miss grandma.”

I freeze. What do I do in such a situation? I should call Matt and ask him about this. Tell him what the kids want. In fact, he’s the one who should call his mother and talk to her, have his kids talk to her.

This isn’t my decision.

Then I think of all that has happened in the past days, all he has been through, all the kids have been through. Does he need to worry about this, too?

And will he call? Or put it off like he’s been doing with his life? Pushing it back, shoveling guilt and anger over it until he can barely breathe anymore?

I’m the nanny. These kids are my responsibility. And to my judgment, they need to hear their grandma’s voice today.

They need all the help, all the affection and love they can get.

So I’ll do my best to give it to them.

* * *

Mary gives me the phone number. It’s on a piece of paper decorated with red hearts and unicorns.

“She gave it to me before we left,” she tells me seriously. “So I could always find her. But only my daddy has a phone, and he won’t call her.”

Oh God. I swear I can feel my heart cracking in my chest.

Also, I’m getting seriously pissed at Matt for doing this, taking this from them after they lost their mom.

Why won’t he let them talk to their grandma? What’s the harm in that? Come on!

So I take the kids to the sofa, and punch the number into my cell phone to call, with Mary on my one side, Cole on the other, both looking up at me with huge, anxious eyes.

The line rings and rings, and for a moment I think nobody will answer. That maybe the grandma is not at home, just our luck—or maybe the number Mary has is wrong.

Then a voice says from the other end, “Hello? Who is this?”

A woman’s voice, distorted by distance, and I swallow hard, wanting to cry and not even sure why.

I pass the phone to Mary who grabs it eagerly. “Grandma?”

No way can I hear what the grandma is saying, but watching Mary’s face is worth it. Her eyes light up and she grins widely showing the gap in her front teeth.

Adorable.

And then Cole grabs the phone from her and then his little face lights up, and aww.

God.

I have tears running down my face.

Wiping at them quickly, I smile as the kids pass the phone back and forth, talking about their new life in our small town to their grandma, telling them about a woman down the street who used to look after them until I came along, and then about me, and how much fun they have with me.

I lean in and give them a hug, just because. Adorable little brats.

In any case, it’s obvious they love their grandma very much, and that she must love them, too. So Matt and I, we need to have a little talk.

That’s what’s on my mind for most of the day, and I’m ready to ask him about it when I hear the key in the lock much later. He comes in, but then I take a good look at him, and it all flies right out of my mind.

* * *

“What happened?” I get up from my spot on the carpet where the kids are watching TV and drawing in their drawing books and I’m by his side in a split second. “Matt, what’s wrong?”

He’s breathing hard, not exactly that scary rattling sound from this morning, but still wheezing. Like he can’t draw a deep breath. His gaze is hollow, his jaw clenched, his lips white.

“Matt?” I haven’t touched him yet, not sure he has seen or heard me at all. His eyes are so distant he might as well be looking at another galaxy. It’s as if he’s not really here.

It scares me to death.

Then he lifts a scrunched-up piece of paper in his fist, and my blood turns to ice. “This son of a bitch.”

I reach for the paper, but he takes a step back, the movement unsteady. “What does it say?”

“Nothing. Just… motherfucker. Keeps fucking me over. What does he want?” He stares down at the ball of paper, his breathing growing more labored. He shakes his fist. “What do you want?”

He’s making no sense. I glance back at the kids, and they’re arguing over changing the TV channel to another kids program.

Good.

“Did you find that on the door?” I glance at it. It’s half-open. “Was there a knife? What does it say?”

He finally seems to notice me. He unclenches his fingers, and I take the piece of paper from his hand. “Tay,” he whispers.

And then he sways. One moment he’s staring at the paper I’m unfolding, the next he stumbles sideways, his shoulder knocking into the wall.

Shit. “Hey.” The paper flutters to the floor as I make a grab for him because he looks like he’s about to fall over. “Jesus, just…”

“Motherfucking shit.” He slams a hand into the wall, and I swear it leaves a dent in the plaster.

But his voice is shaky.

“Are you drunk?” I wrap an arm around his waist, trying to steady him, but he’s a big guy, all six feet something of him, big boned and heavily muscled. “Talk to me.”

“M’fine.” He slurs the words. “Not drunk.”

“Then what?” I manage to pull him off the wall and drape one of his arms over my shoulders. His body burns against me. “Lean on me, okay? Let’s get you to bed.”

“To hell with that.” But he is leaning on me, his breathing hot and fast, and Jesus, the heat wafting from his body is scorching. “Said m’fine.”

“Humor me.” God, this is like gentling a wild animal. The kids are staring at us now, and I smile at them, hoping to reassure them. “Your daddy and me, we have a few things to discuss upstairs, okay? Just stay here and be good, and I’ll come down in a bit to give you some ice cream. Okay, guys?”

They both nod, their small faces earnest and worried.

It doesn’t help that Matt groans, hunching over. What is wrong with him? Now I’m getting really worried, too. His breath doesn’t smell of alcohol, so he was telling the truth. He isn’t drunk.

But he’s shaky and unsteady, and too hot, and all this spells sick. “How long have you been feeling off?”

“All day,” he admits softly as we make our way to the stairs, defeat in his tone. “Threw up twice at work.”

Oh God, I get a feeling I know what this is. “You got the bug from the kids.”

He doesn’t deny it. “But you didn’t,” he sort of grumbles, then says more softly, “I’m glad.”

“I rarely get sick. I’m immune. Been through all the diseases on the planet as a kid.”

He doesn’t contest that, and it takes all my concentration to get him up the stairs, stopping every couple of steps for him to catch his breath.

By the time we reach his bedroom, my arms and back are killing me from trying to support his weight, and he looks terrible, his eyes glassy and his face pale and beaded with sweat. His back is soaked, his skin burning the inside of my arm that’s wedged around his waist.

We stumble inside and make it to the bed, and he falls on it, dragging me down with him.

I disentangle myself and roll him on his back. “You’re burning up. We need to get the fever down.”

He only grunts, his eyes closing, like he’s too exhausted to care if he lives or dies.

But here’s the crux of the problem, right here:

I do.