Chapter 2: Surly Romance: Chapter 2

The brain is a complex piece of biological tech that thousands of years of study and research can’t fully unravel. Yet I understand the brain a hell of a lot more than I understand Sunny Quetzal and her crazy impulses.

Full disclosure, I’m not using ‘crazy’ in a clinical sense. From what I’ve observed (and against my better judgement, I can’t help but pay attention to Sunny Quetzal), her frontal lobe seems to be functioning just fine.

It isn’t that she’s incapable of rational thought. It’s that Sunny’s trained her synapses to fire in directions that most socialized human beings would reject at a subconscious level.

Translation: Sunny does what she wants whether it’s a good idea or not.

What’s even more dangerous is her charisma. With a head toss and a confident smile, she can influence others to believe her outlandish ways are perfectly sound. More than that. She can make you believe her wildness is charming.

I’d suggest she see a therapist, but I doubt she’d acknowledge my professional advice. In fact, she’d probably take it as an insult, hurl a couple choice words at me and flip me off with those elegant and dark fingers.

Sunny takes pride in making emotional decisions and will defend those choices with totally flawed logic. She’ll be loud about it too. Which is one of the many things I dislike about her.

Last night’s ridiculous burlesque show is another example of her destructive impulsiveness. I’m still finding confetti in the crevices of my body hours after I’ve showered. I might be shaking out pieces of twisted paper from my hair twelve years from now.

My phone rings in the quiet of my office. I glance at the device sitting primly on my desk—a giant wooden monstrosity that was a gift from my father. The surface of the desk is bare except for the phone, a laptop, a keyboard and a lamp. I detest clutter with my every breath and it calms me to see all that clean space.

Picking up my phone, I glance at the screen and frown. What does Alistair want with me?

“Hello?” I grunt.

“You left your glass slipper behind when you ran away yesterday.”

I squeeze my fingers against the bridge of my nose. “What do you want?”

“Kenya asked me to call and see if you were okay.”

“I should have known this was an assignment from your bride.”

“I’d be a sad and lonely person if I was interested in your personal life, Darrel, since you do nothing exciting at all.”

My eyes narrow. Alistair’s gotten a lot cheekier since he met Kenya. Not that he wasn’t outspoken before, only he knew better than to voice all the thoughts that came to his head.

Kenya’s a bad influence.

But I believe that’s Sunny’s fault.

Everything is Sunny’s fault.

Whether that’s a rational thought or not can be evaluated on a separate occasion.

“I had something to do.”

“You’re the one who organized the party. What did you have to do that was so urgent?”

Lying is one of the most practical accomplishments of the human brain, so I feel no shame when I confidently tell Alistair, “I had to make a call.”

“You weren’t running from Sunny?”

It’s a pointed question, and I detest him for it.

“What does Sunny have to do with anything?” I force my voice into a dry, bored tone.

Alistair gets very quiet.

And I get very nervous.

I’ve been careful to not even glance at Sunny when she and I are in the same room. We don’t speak and we don’t interact beyond the necessities of social propriety. If I could avoid her entirely, I would.

“I don’t know, Darrel. You tell me what Sunny has to do with it.”

A lump forms in the center of my throat. It is imperative that no one finds out about my history with Sunny or the embarrassing secret I’m determined to keep under wraps.

When I still say nothing, Alistair pipes up. “I heard you slammed her into the ground last night. You wanna explain that?”

My lips press together, and I breathe shakily into the phone. “Last night was…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I’ve been trying to forget about my collision with Sunny, but Alistair’s foisted the topic on me. Now my brain is running at full speed as if it was waiting for this moment.

“What is it about her that gets on your nerves?”

Everything. Her irrational impulses. Her disdain for logical arguments. Her stubbornness. Her soul-deep laughter. Those dark eyes, deep and alluring. Her perfectly symmetrical nose. Soft brown skin. Long, willowy body.

Geez, that body.

She was practically served up on a silver platter in that ridiculous sparkly bra and flared skirt. I held her in my arms, and it made my brain misfire. She’d been soft against me and she smelled like… flowers mixed with a salty Caribbean breeze.

Not that I’d wanted to notice her smell.

Or the fact that her eyes sparkle like stars.

Or the fact that her chest squashed against mine like magnetic particles in the blood stream.

My pants start to tighten and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the bodily response in check. Still, my heart beats faster—a product of overacting pituitary glands firing instructions to my nether regions.

Even a dedication to logic and reason can’t hinder biological functions. Unfortunately. And despite my utter distaste for Sunny Quetzal, she is the only woman who consistently and frustratingly titillates the part of my brain that triggers arousal.

“Kenya’s worried that you two won’t make it to the wedding.” Alistair’s voice is lower now. “Is there going to be a problem, Darrel?”

I know Alistair’s warning is not personal. With Kenya’s influence, he’s managing his need for control and dominance, but just because he’s taken his foot off the gas doesn’t mean he can change the makeup of his brain.

My brother-in-law is still fiercely protective of his people. That includes his daughter and his fiancée. I can hear the ring of a threat in his voice, not against me personally but against anything that I would do to destroy Kenya’s day.

“I gave my word to be your best man, and I honor my promises. Even if it kills me.”

“Why so dramatic? It’s not like Sunny has murderous intent.”

He’s wrong about that. Sunny is tearing me in two. Self-preservation demands I stay far away from her, while my base instincts insist I get her naked as soon as possible. A mind in constant war with itself will start to self-destruct. It’s very likely that Sunny Quetzal will be the death of me.

“I’m not sure what the purpose of this call is, Alistair.”

“I’ve got a concerned fiancée wondering if her maid of honor and my best man are going to choke the life out of each other before the big day. I’m calling to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

“I’m not the one body slamming women to the ground.”

I tilt my head back and sigh at the ceiling. “It was an impulsive response. I apologized.”

“You overreacted. You never do that.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“And no one abhors flaws as much as you.”

“Is that an insult, Alistair?”

“I’m asking you sincerely to play nice with Kenya’s best friend.”

“Impossible.”

“For a man who claims to love rational thought over all else, you sure wear your emotions on your sleeve.”

I sigh heavily. “Dislike is not an emotion. It’s a synapse in the brain. The amygdala activates when key neurons—”

“Fascinating but sadly I have more interesting things to do. Kenya just walked in.”

“Hey, baby.”

I hear a kissing sound and cringe. Alistair’s lack of self-control around his fiancé is something he’s utterly proud of. Kenya encourages it. Their obsession with each other is one I don’t understand. So many clients have walked into my office, broken and torn after a relationship gone wrong.

Love is a damaging phenomenon. I learned that lesson the hard way in high school and, as an adult, I pride myself on avoiding any relationships that could rattle the status quo.

Those who say they ‘can’t help falling in love’ are the weak ones. Self-restraint is a superpower. The brain is the control center of the body, but it doesn’t control me. I choose which direction I want to take, not the muscle in my skull.

And if I say there will be no more thoughts about the beautiful and irritating Sunny Quetzal, then there won’t be.

“Oh, hold on a sec, Darrel. Kenya wants to talk to you.”

I lean forward. “Actually, I’m busy—”

“Darrel!” Kenya’s sweet voice purrs over the line. She’s a petite go-getter with a strong sense of purpose. I’d need neuroimaging to be sure, but I’m almost certain she has a unique electrical stimulation in her frontal lobe that pushes her toward challenges.

In that sense, she’s very similar to Alistair who reacts with glee when presented with a problem. They both feed on resistance and find it thrilling to fight through difficulties.

“You’ll be at the last dance practice, right? I’m telling you long in advance because you missed the last two sessions.”

I open my mouth to form a rejection, but there’s a knock on the door. Dina, my head nurse who also doubles as the center’s receptionist, pokes her head in. Her wrinkles deepen in distress as she gestures to me.

“Sorry, Kenya. I have to go.” I press my fingers into the arm of my chair and rise.

“You’ll be there, right, Darrel? I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Come on, Darrel,” Alistair adds. “You said you keep your promises. This dance class falls under your best man duties.”

“Fine,” I grind out.

“Perfect!” Kenya’s exuberance sets me on edge. She’s a little too happy to watch me stumble over my two-left feet in a practice room.

“See you then,” Alistair says.

I end the call and toss the phone into my pocket. Whipping my lab coat from the back of my chair, I slide my arms into it.

The coat is pretentious and a pain to iron, but I’ve seen the benefits of wearing it. The white fabric is a symbol. A label. A way to calm a patient’s mind and associate myself with something they can trust.

“What’s wrong?” I ask Dina.

She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Darrel…”

I’m on edge immediately. Like me, Dina doesn’t rattle easy. She’s been a psychology nurse for longer than I’ve been alive and no matter how unnerving a case is, she doesn’t waver. Seeing the panic so clear in her expression, I brace myself for the worst.

“It’s the hospital.” She gulps. “They’re calling you.”

My heart sinks. “Is she…”

Dina just shakes her head.

I surge past her, jump into my car and drive to the hospital as fast as I can.

The car careens to a stop in the hospital parking lot. Flickers of a memory gnaw at me. I see flashing lights. A body on a stretcher. Alistair’s bloody face staring at me with agony.

My body refuses to move. I sit in the vehicle and take in deep breaths. The past and the present are colliding. I’ve got to jar my brain back to reality by any means necessary.

Keep breathing.

This feeling is just a shockwave going through your temporal lobe.

Inhale.

Emotional instability can be conquered with knowledge and proper stimuli.

Exhale.

Claire is not inside that hospital. Nothing inside that building can hurt me.

I fall back on the techniques I teach my patients. I count backwards from ten, keeping my breaths paced and steady. When I’ve got my panic under control, I scramble into the hospital.

The smell hits me first. Sharp. Chemical. The scent is disguised by an air freshener that struggles to cover the stench of sickness and desperation. Doctors surge past me, their eyes focused and their steps sharp. There’s always someone who needs help. Another family in crisis. Another body shutting down.

Stomping through the corridors reminds me of the night Claire died. I know, in theory, that it’s only my memory index surging to the forefront, but it’s hard to tamp down the flood of nausea.

Claire was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident. The ambulance sped her to the hospital, but she wasn’t brought to a room. She was taken straight to the morgue. Slipping the sheet off her face was one of the most horrific things I’ve ever had to do.

Thankfully, I’m not headed in the direction of the morgue today. Instead, the nurse at the desk directs me to the emergency room.

I step past the beds separated by wispy curtains until I locate an elderly woman lying on a cot. Grey hair spills around her white pillow. Veiny hands are clutched on top of her stomach. Her chest is pumping up and down.

She’s alive.

Relief spills through me, rushing to my fingers and toes.

I draw near to her.

To my surprise, she senses my presence without opening her eyes. “I’m sorry they called you.”

“Of course they’d call me.” I fold myself into a chair near her cot. “I’m disappointed you didn’t want them to.”

“We shouldn’t be bothering you.”

I adjust the sheet so it’s covering her up to her chin. “I would have been very upset if you kept this from me.”

“You should be worrying about your own life.” Her voice has a slight wheeze. It makes my heart pinch.

“My life is perfectly in order.”

“You’re a busy man.”

“I had nothing on my agenda today.” That’s not true, but hearing the truth won’t be helpful in a case like this.

She opens her eyes and pins me with a watery blue gaze. “I can’t look at you without feeling like we’re taking advantage of your loyalty.”

“Professor Stein was there for me during the darkest time of my life. This is hardly enough to pay him back.”

“You made a promise to help him. Not his family. This is a lifetime commitment. One you didn’t ask for—”

I reach out and take her hands. Her skin is paper-thin as if one sharp wind can tear it open and expose the flesh underneath. Moles dot her arms and her veins are especially blue in the sunlight.

“Professor Stein would have traded his life for his family. Honoring him is taking care of the people he left behind.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “The kids don’t know.”

“They’ve stayed with me before.” I think of the bedroom I personally decorated in the farmhouse. It has a bunk bed, a dresser and a poster of Michael Gazzaniga because even children are old enough to appreciate a psychologist who made scientific breakthroughs.

“I don’t know, Darrel. In the past, it was only for a few short months. This is…” She coughs. “This will be different.”

“I promise, I’m going to take care of them.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make sure they’ll feel at home.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why is your heart beating so fast?” I gesture to where our hands are clasped.

“You’re analyzing me.”

“I’m pointing out the obvious.”

“This isn’t fair. None of it is.” She sighs.

“I’ve thought this through, Ms. Jean. I can do it.”

“I’m not worried about your ability, Darrel.” She pulls her fingers away from mine. “I worry about how they’ll handle all this.” Tears fill her eyes. One spills down her cheek and falls into the deep wrinkles carving her face like a map. “They’ve lost so much in their short lives.”

My breathing is steady. So are my words when I assure her. “I’m going to make the same promise to you as I did to Professor Stein before he…” I catch myself and let that comment fade. “I will take care of your family like they’re my own.”

“It’s a burden.”

“It’s done. And I don’t go back on my promises.”

She bats away the tear. “I’m going to talk to them. Prepare them. Micheal, he… he won’t take this well.”

“I can be there, Ms. Jean.”

“I’d prefer if you weren’t. I still have some time before… I’d like them to have a few days of normalcy with me.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing, Darrel.”

I lean over and check her IV fluids. “What is it?”

“I contacted the social worker.”

I freeze. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

My lips arch up. “You acted like you weren’t sure about my intentions, but you were already making moves.”

“I believed in you, but I also prepared myself for the worst.” She’s smiling now. “The social worker will be at your place this evening. I was going to call you, but I ended up in the hospital before I had the chance.”

“Wait. You said… this evening?”

“I don’t want to wait until the last minute. While I’m still alive, I can help with the paperwork. It’ll prevent any complications when the time comes.”

Now would be the time to lie to her. To tell her she’s got plenty of years in her. To assure her she can watch the kids grow up and have kids of their own. But she wouldn’t believe me. She’s a smart woman.

“I’ll meet the social worker this evening. Don’t worry.”

“Darrel.”

“Yes, Ms. Jean?”

“Thank you.” Thin eyelashes flutter. “Thank you so much.”

Her gratitude feels unwarranted. If it wasn’t for Professor Stein, I’d still be stuck in a job I hate, trying to find meaning in a life that made me feel dead inside. I wouldn’t be the man I am without him. I owe him this much.

The curtain draws back with a loud whirr and the doctor appears. His eyes are somber and his steps are as slow as a funeral march.

“Are you the guardian?” he asks in a tight voice.

I nod.

“Let’s talk.”

I follow him into the hallway and let my hands fall limply at my sides.

His dark eyes study me intently. “You’re her grandson?”

“I’m a… friend.” It would take too long to explain my connection to Ms. Jean right now.

“It’s just you?” He arches an eyebrow. There’s a hint of a scolding in that sentence as if he’s personally offended I’m the only one who showed up. “Where’s her family?”

“Dead.”

His face drops. Normally, I wouldn’t be so harsh, but I have no time to convince him that I’m worthy enough to speak on Ms. Jean’s behalf.

“What happened today?” I ask firmly.

He shuffles his feet as if the news he’s about to unleash is too unnerving to stay still. “She fainted on the job and was rushed to the hospital. I sent her to do some scans and…” He presses his lips together. “It’s not looking too good.”

“She knows.”

His eyebrows lift. “Does she?”

“Yes. She’s made arrangements.” The funeral hall director met with her several times. She knows exactly what kind of coffin she wants, a shiny walnut design with etched gold handles. Her funeral colors will be blue ‘like the sky above the cemetery’ and green ‘like the grass over her tombstone.’

Most people would find planning their own funerals morbid, but Ms. Jean planned it like she was preparing for a party. I want it to be in a church, but I don’t want any boring speeches or tears, Ms. Jean told me a year ago, when she sent the kids to stay with me for the first time. Then after the funeral, I want fun music. And beer. And dancing. Make sure there’s dancing.

My eyes bore into the doctor. “Can you make sure she’s not in pain? That’s the only thing I ask.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I walk out of the hospital with my shoulders hunched. The sun burns my eyes and falls on top of my head like it wants to fry my hair. Warmth. Light. Life. It feels like a fantasy even though it’s in front of me.

I’ve seen how close Death is to all of us. Much closer than we think. My thoughts veer to a dark place. To Claire. To the day my life changed for the worst. I wonder if it’s better to pass on suddenly, like my sister did the night of the accident, or to draw out the time, knowing your days are numbered and forcing your family to prepare for the end too.

I turn on upbeat music on the way to the center and try to herd those thoughts back into their dungeon. I still have clients to see today. It’s not smart to be caught up in my own issues when a clear head is needed for my sessions.

Back at the center, the day begins in earnest and I meet with clients without taking a break.

At four on the dot, Dina enters my office with a tray of coffee. It’s nothing like Ezekiel’s brew, and I mostly drink it just to be polite.

I eye the brown gunk with distaste and swipe it off the tray. “Can you change the sign on the door? I don’t want any walk-ins unless it’s an emergency.”

“You never head home this early.” Her eyes widen. “Is Ms. Jean okay?”

I shake my head.

Dina sighs and holds the tray to her chin. “That poor woman. And those kids…”

I check my watch and push out of my chair before she can start laying on the sympathy. I detested everything about losing my baby sister, but coping with people’s condolences was an unwelcome addition to my grief.

There’s not much to say when a life is snuffed out, and the people who try to deviate from the script and get creative with their condolences were the ones who made me want to jump into the casket with Claire.

“I need to head home now. The social worker is inspecting the farmhouse today. I can’t be late.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“I can do it alone.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to.” She eyes me. “It’s been a year since you’ve known this day was coming. Why haven’t you told your family the truth? Alistair still thinks you were taking care of a patient’s kids last year. He has no idea what’s really going on.”

“Ms. Jean, technically, was a patient,” I grumble. We put her on the official client list so she could have access to me and Dina in case of an emergency.

“You know exactly what I mean, Darrel. You intentionally made it seem like she was ‘missing sessions’, when referring to her missing treatments at the hospital.” Dina tilts her head. “I don’t get all the secrecy. Helping this family is not a shameful thing and Alistair is—”

“I thought we didn’t pry into each other’s private lives, Dina.” The warning is gentle but clear.

She pins her lips together. “If you’re asking me to butt out, I’m going to politely decline.”

I sigh. Guess she’s not going to drop it. “Alistair is busy with his wedding. This is a happy time for him. I’ll let him know what’s going on when the kids move in permanently.” It’s not like I can hide that I have two tiny people in my house. Alistair is going to have some questions.

“So you’re really doing this? You’re really taking them in?”

“It was decided a long time ago.”

A smile inches across her wrinkled face. “You’re a good man, Darrel.”

A good man? The label makes me itchy. There are so many reasons that term doesn’t apply to me. Starting with the argument I had with my sister just before she left on that tragic trip with Alistair and ending yesterday when I seriously considered laying a kiss on my arch enemy’s juicy brown lips.

If I’m what the world classifies as a ‘good man’, then we definitely need to revisit the meaning of the term.

“Didn’t you say you had to meet the social worker? Go, go.” Dina shoos me out of the therapy center.

I hustle to the farmhouse, wondering if the social worker would subtract points for a wrinkled shirt and the five o’clock shadow around my chin. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to shave or freshen up. The moment I pull into the driveway, the social worker is right behind me.

“Mr. Hastings.” She extends a dark hand. Her hair’s up in a puff and two giant hoops dangle from her ears. Her uniform falls just below her thick knees and she’s wearing orthopedic black pumps. “I’m Ms. Bennet, the social worker assigned to Ms. Jeans’s case.”

“Ms. Bennet, nice to see you.”

“You just got home?” She arches a brow.

“Uh…”

“How late do you work most days?” She flips open a tiny notebook.

I blink rapidly. The fierce expression on her face makes me uneasy. Why do I get the feeling that she already dislikes me?

I gesture to the front door. “Why don’t we head inside and talk?”

“I asked you a question, Mr. Hastings.”

My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “It depends on my workload. Sometimes, a session will go over the time we’ve allotted. Sometimes, a client will call me after hours.”

Mental issues don’t take a break after five o’clock. Many times, a client will face their darkest thoughts at an hour when the rest of the world would be decompressing.

She keeps scribbling in her notebook. “So you don’t have a reliable schedule?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” I choose my words carefully. From the tight way she’s holding the pen, to the pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Ms. Bennet seems to be on the hunt for infractions. “I’m open to changing my schedule to fit the children’s needs. I’m also open to hiring a nanny in the case that—”

“In the case that what? You can’t be there for Micheal and Bailey?”

I inhale a deep breath and let it out calmly. “Ms. Bennet, why don’t you come inside? I can offer some refreshments.”

Sitting down and distracting her with food will trigger dopamine and, hopefully, get her to associate me with something sweet. It’s a dirty psychology trick, but desperate measures…

“Mr. Hastings,” Ms. Bennet follows me into the kitchen, “have you met with Micheal and Bailey before?”

“I was there when Bailey was born.” I open the fridge and pull out the box of orange juice. I’d offer her something more grown-up, like wine or whiskey, but that would probably earn more earnest notebook scribblings. “Professor Stein was ecstatic that his wife was able to carry to term. Micheal was already a miracle baby, but they were both older by the time Bailey came around.”

“You’re familiar with the family.”

“Professor Stein was my mentor.” More than that. He was like a father to me. A much better one than mine ever was. But I’m not going there with this social worker who seems like she’s been getting glaring lessons from Sunny Quetzal.

Why am I thinking of Sunny right now?

I shake my head. “Both of the boys stayed here while their grandmother was getting treatments.”

“Ms. Jean is interested in naming you as the boys’ official guardian. Did you make this request?”

“We discussed it a long time ago. The boys have no other kin—”

“You are not kin,” she bites out.

I suck in another breath. If she were my patient, I’d probably prescribe breathing exercises along with daily journal writing to identify what her emotional triggers are. Since this is a very different conversation, I force myself to stop analyzing her and try to appeal to her sympathies.

“A family isn’t necessarily made of people related by blood.”

“And a single man loosely connected to a family of scholars doesn’t just volunteer to become a father of two.”

My teeth clench at the term. “I wouldn’t be a father.” I wouldn’t call myself that if you held me at gun point. “I’d be a guardian.”

Her eyes narrow. “I see.”

Damn. What exactly is she seeing? Something tells me I won’t like the answer.

I bounce to my feet and gesture to the stairs. “Why don’t I show you where the boys will be staying?”

She nods, her lips tight.

I take her up the stairs to the room Micheal and Bailey shared when they visited. “Right now, they have a bunk, but I intend on converting the office for Bailey to have his own room.”

“Did you decorate?”

I glance at the bedroom with its bare walls, neat furniture and the poster. It’s warm. Spacious. Free of clutter. “Yes.”

“And they stayed here?”

I blink. “Yes. Is something wrong?”

“It feels… barren.” She folds her arms over her chest and taps her fingers twice. “Like an after-thought. It definitely doesn’t match the rest of the house.”

“The decorating for the rest of the house was done by a company. I did the boys’ room myself.”

“Was it not worth having a professional come in and do it?” She arches an eyebrow. “You put so much thought into the rest of the house, but couldn’t be bothered with the boys’ room?”

My irritation spikes, so I clamp my mouth shut before I say something thoughtless.

“Mr. Hastings.” She clasps her hands and leans forward, her eyes boring into me. “Are you aware of the magnitude of responsibility that having—not only one child but two will place on you? Not to mention, these kids have lost their mother, their father and now they’re about to lose their grandmother. They’ve faced more loss than a full-grown adult can bear.”

“Which is why my background in neuropsychology is such an asset.”

“Is it? Or is it simply an experiment?”

I stiffen. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to imply.”

“Your father was a high-ranking military official and your mother was an heiress. You and your sister grew up with money and status. She went on to found Belle’s Beauty. You became the king of investment banking.” She eases back and surveys me. “You were at the top of your game before you suddenly decided to change directions and study psychology. And now, as a single man with no significant other, you’ve suddenly decided to raise two children who don’t belong to you?”

“Male mentorship is a necessary component in the fabric of a boy’s life. And I hardly see what not having a girlfriend has to do with my ability to care for these kids. Regarding my change of employment, it was a sound decision. I am not a man who moves on impulse.”

“And yet your track record speaks for itself.” She shakes her head, her lips sagging with disapproval. “Mr. Hastings, what these children need is stability.” Gesturing to the room, she says, “I really hope that Ms. Jean put her trust in the right person.”

I pull my lips into my mouth. Since there’s nothing left to be said, I see Ms. Bennet out and then I walk back into the boys’ room.

In the silence, my brain spins with potential fixes.

Problem #1: The social worker hates me.

Problem #2: The social worker might not approve the guardianship.

Problem #3: The social worker thinks the boys’ rooms need better decorating.

The solution pops into my brain at once.

I pick up my phone and call Dina. “Get me the interior designer who worked on my farmhouse. I need them in my office. Tomorrow.”

After ending the call, I stride to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I’m going to prove that I can be a good guardian to these kids. I made a promise to my professor, and no matter what, I’m going to keep my word.