Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Who loses a wife?” His eyes narrow in silent chastisement.
“This idiot,” I say with a strangled laugh. A strangled laugh that borders on tears because I am an idiot. “I’m so fu—very sorry, little bud. Sorry I’ve missed so much.” I drop my head, not wanting him to see what the admission does to me when, in the periphery of my vision, I notice his small hand creeping across the table. The lump in my throat doubles when he pats my fingers. Sort of there, there. You might be an idiot father, but you’re my idiot father.
“Are you gonna tell people now? Now that we’re found?”
“Your mum doesn’t want to. I dunno, maybe she doesn’t like me.”
“She does, remember?” he says with animation. “She likes you a whole lot. I don’t know why, but it’s like she doesn’t want to show you.”
“Maybe she’s worried.” Worried I’ll break her heart. That I’ll disappear for a second time. This has got to be it, which means we’re back to the glacial bullshit. I want her now—forever. How do I get her to understand that?
“You should tell her you love her,” my little sage says, as though he’s been reading my mind.
“I tried that.” Last night. She may as well have laughed in my face.
“Maybe you need to make her feel it, too.”
“That’s good advice.” Maybe he’s the first Phillips kid child prodigy after all. I should see about getting him a talk show like Dr. Phil.
“Words are sometimes tricky,” the kid adds. “But feelings make you remember more stuff. Look at Moose,” he says, dipping his head to see under the table. I hadn’t realised the scruffy mutt was there, but she is, curled in a ball pretty much right next to him. “I’m Moose’s favourite person in the world, but she can’t tell me. She makes me know it in lots of other ways. Sometimes those ways make my heart feel like it’s gonna jump out of my chest. You should show her like Moose shows me.”
“So I should . . . lick my bum, then lick her face?”
Wilder’s cackling laughter seems like it could be the antidote for sadness. It’s just that infectious. “I don’t think Mom would like that,” he says with a huge grin.
“Me either. So what’s next?”
“I don’t know. You’re the grown-up,” he reminds me with a shrug.
“I thought you were helping.”
“I’m trying, sheesh!”
“Right, so . . .” My eyebrows expectantly high on my head, we fall quiet for a bit. I’m not thinking about Kennedy. I know we’ll get there—I have faith we’re meant to be because I feel the rightness of it in my bones. Instead, I’m marvelling at my kid. Seeing my brothers in the set of his mouth and his mother in the way his brow gathers. I watch him with poorly concealed wonder as he considers then abandons thoughts to help me out with my problem. My problem, not his. This kid’s soul is so pure.
“I’ve got it!”
I jolt back in my chair at his exclamation as Wilder clicks his thumb and forefinger together, accompanying his eureka moment. He stares at them unhappily, repeating the motion when there isn’t any sound.
“I can do this,” he mutters, refusing to look my way.
“Course you can.” Gently pressing my hand over his, I add, “It just takes a couple of attempts sometimes.”
“Can you click your fingers?” He angles his gaze my way, head canted to the side.
“Yep, but not consistently. I mean, I didn’t manage it every time until I was at least ten.” The male ego is fragile, right? “I can help teach you if you want.”
“Can you teach me how to whistle with my fingers, too?”
“Too easy.” I ruffle my hand through his hair. “But first things first, how do I get your mum to tell people she likes me?” Bugger that.
“Too easy,” the kid parrots back, making me smile like a loon. “We learn from the movies.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Cue a manic nod of his head. “Mom and me, we watched a movie one time and it had kissing and stuff.” His expression curls in distaste.
Leaving stuff alone for a minute, it occurs to me that this might be the perfect moment to pass on a little fatherly advice. “You know, one day, you’ll have all kinds of feelings about girls.” Or boys. Maybe both.
“I do have feelings,” he retorts, whip sharp. “They mostly make me angry. Except Mom. She’s okay.”
“I think so, too. So this movie. Kissing, you say?”
“Yeah.” Distasteful expression number two comes with narrowed eyes. “But that wasn’t the important part. Or the thing she liked,” he adds quickly, protecting his mother’s virtue. Too late, little guy. “She liked the other stuff. Candy and flowers and compliments. Then there was this part when the guy made the girl angry, so he had this like, music box thing.” He mimes a large square in the air. “It was huge! Mom said it was how people used to play music before Spotify.”