Chapter One Aiden
“It’s a little crooked.”
A slow sigh escaped my lips, not that my daughter could hear with the unicorn-covered blankets pulled up past her nose.
Hand on my hips, I stared at the offending item. “I don’t know, gingersnap. It looks like it did last night, right?”
That stumped her for a solid thirty seconds. Her blue eyes stared straight up, unblinking and unwavering, and I could practically see her trying to dig up reasons the hot pink tulle canopy was off center and thereby unacceptable. If it was unacceptable, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
Her eyes darted toward me, then back up to the pink cloud. “Did Uncle Clark measure it?”
“Uncle Clark measures everything.”
The sound of her giggle was muffled by the mound of blankets. But nonetheless, I heard it, and something eased in my chest. Bedtime had been our biggest struggle in the two years since Beth died. It began about six months after we buried her and with just little things at first.
Daddy, can you move that lamp a little closer to my bed? It’s too far away, and I can’t see it.
Can I have one more blanket over my feet? They’re cold, and I won’t be able to sleep if they’re cold.
Can I get one more stuffed animal from the playroom? Four isn’t enough, and I think I need five to sleep.
Over the next year, the things that bothered her got a little bit bigger and a little bit harder to accommodate. But it faded as we rounded the eighteen-month mark. Her bedroom stayed untouched, and I was able to slip out after reading her a story, saying a prayer, and wishing a good night to each and every plush character that filled the queen-sized bed with her.
Then we moved from California to Washington to be closer to my family so I didn’t have to raise my daughter completely solo. So Anya could have grandparents and her uncles and aunt around. And the first night in our new home—where we’d been for the last two weeks—it began again.
“How about this,” I said slowly. “I’ll go downstairs and see if Uncle Beckham brought his tape measure over, and he can check Uncle Clark’s measuring skills. Sound good?”
She nodded, tufts of white-blond hair sticking up around her head.
Carefully, I bent over and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Love you, gingersnap.”
“Love you more, daddysnap.”
My lips curled into a smile.
“You’re coming back after you talk to Uncle Beckham, right?”
“Yes.”
Anya sighed, slipping the covers down a couple of inches, enough that I could see the gap where her two front teeth used to be when she smiled at me. “Okay.”
The bedtime routine was a dance the two of us had performed countless times on our own, and I could do it half-asleep.
Turn on the small lamp on her nightstand.
Adjust the framed picture of her and Beth so that Anya could see it easily.
Adjust the canopy so it enclosed as much of her bed as possible.
Stop just before I left her room, blow her a kiss, which she caught and smacked over her mouth.
But my smile dropped as I descended the stairs down to the main floor, where my brothers Beckham and Deacon waited for me.
They were on the floor of the sprawling family room, assembling something pink and white and covered in glitter.
“What is that?” I asked.
Deacon brought a glittery crown up to his forehead. “I think it’s supposed to be one of those vanity things.”
My eyebrows rose slowly. “Who bought her that?”
“Eloise,” they said in unison.
“Ahh.” Our youngest sibling had taken to purchasing anything Anya could possibly want since we moved here. My parents weren’t much different, given she was the only grandchild—which meant the only niece for my four unmarried siblings. If Anya wasn’t a complete monster by the time she turned ten, it would be a miracle.
With a weariness I felt in every bone and muscle, I sank down onto the couch while they continued to work.
“What was it tonight?” Beckham asked.
I sighed. “The canopy. She wasn’t sure it was centered over her bed.”
His face cracked into a smile as he screwed a leg onto the small white vanity bench. “Clark hung it,” he said by way of answer.
Which meant yes, it was centered. Our middle brother, aka genius boy, was never wrong when it came to things like that.
“I should go up with a measuring tape just in case she’s still awake.”
Beckham and Deacon shared a look.
“What?” I asked.
“You sure you should still be indulging her?” Beckham asked. His eyes stayed firmly planted on the furniture, though.
My fingers found the bridge of my nose and pinched tight. “No, I don’t know that. But if either of you have any helpful advice in how to help a seven-year-old girl who lost her mom, then I’m open to suggestions.”
“Maybe you should take her to talk to someone if she’s still doing stuff like this.”
“It was getting better back in LA.” I dropped my hand and studied the crisscrossing scars along my knuckles. “Once she gets used to this house and her new school, it’ll get better here too.”
“It’s been two years, Aiden,” Deacon added.
Like I didn’t know when my wife died. I could’ve counted the days with ease. Without looking at a calendar, I knew how many hours it had been. Maybe even down to the minute, if I had Clark’s skill with numbers. A pervasive emptiness came from losing the person you loved, and maybe that emptiness eased with each passing minute and hour and day, turning into something manageable, but it was always there.
But instead of telling him that, of trying to explain to someone who didn’t have a family of his own and had never loved someone whose loss would carve a hole into his being, I simply nodded. “I know.”
One of the strangest things about being back
