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Nope. Any attempts at a father-son chat were met with an immediate eye roll or a simple, “Dad. It’s cool.”

Thank God for Waylon.

The guy was a fucking saint. He spent a couple of hours a week listening to my father repeat stories about his days on the force, his beautiful wife, and a really ancient tale about stealing snickerdoodles from old Mrs. Krinaki.

“She left those cookies on the windowsill and damn, they smelled good. Like cinnamon and sugar. My buddies and I were maybe ten, and boy, it was high stakes, but we had to have a taste. Ate the whole damn plate between us. Ooooh, Mrs. K was madder than a wet hen,” Dad would hoot. “Never caught us and nope, we never said a word. So don’t go tellin’ on me, ya hear?”

Waylon would zip his lips on cue. “Not a word.”

Dad told that story at least once a week. Sometimes twice. Waylon never reminded Dad that he’d heard it or suggested that if Mrs. K had been old then, she was probably long gone now. He just nodded, asked Dad how he felt about chocolate chip cookies, and somehow got him on track.

Waylon was like that with the kids, too. He excelled at the art of relating to people he had nothing in common with on paper. It wasn’t unusual to find Waylon in my yard tossing a football with Rhys after my mom picked up Dad or at the dining room table quizzing Gretchen.

Last night:

“One kilogram is nearly equivalent to how many pounds?”

“2.2,” she’d replied briskly.

Waylon had cocked his head and nodded. “Correct. Next one. Element number 19 has an isotope named potassium-40. How many neutrons does this isotope contain?”

“21.”

He’d dropped his jaw and for comedic flair, used his hand to close it. “Hold the freaking front door. How do you know this stuff?”

Gretchen had smiled, pleased to be commended for her intelligence. “I study.”

“Impressive. Very impressive.” He’d whistled and added, “I think I need to go back to school.”

He’d eaten dinner with us, watched an episode of The Bear, then said good night. I’d walked outside with him, rubbing my arms against the January chill.

“Thank you for…everything.” I’d raked my fingers through my hair and sighed. “Just know that if we were alone, I’d thank you on my knees.”

Waylon had leaned on his truck, his arms crossed, and a dirty grin on his handsome face. “Tell me more.”

“No chance. I’m not walking into my house sporting a boner. I’ll show you.”

“You’ll show me your boner now?”

I’d smacked his biceps playfully. “This weekend.”

“Deal. Just know that I wish I could kiss the fuck out of you right now.”

I’d glanced at the house. The blinds were closed, the door was closed, and my nearest neighbor would have to crane their necks to see anything juicy. So…

“Do it.”

Waylon had blinked in surprise but recovered quickly, slid his hand around my nape and crashed his mouth over mine. And it was…heaven. His weight, his strength, his scent, the feel of his beard, the brush of his tongue, and⁠—

Shit. The doctor was speaking again.

Something about how important cerebral activities were. He suggested puzzles and board games.

“Even a game of checkers is great.” Dr. Conroy lowered his glasses and eyed Mom, Layla, and me.

Dr. Conroy was a new primary care physician in Pinecrest who specialized in memory care. The doctor was around my age in his mid-to-late forties, tall and fit with blondish hair and the aura of a retired athlete. Supposedly he’d been a point guard for Duke University, had done his residency at Georgetown, and for reasons no one could figure out, he’d closed his successful DC practice to open a significantly smaller one in Pinecrest.

Jess had referred Dr. Conroy to us after leasing him office space. We hadn’t been looking for a replacement, but the drive to Rutland was time consuming, and at this point, we’d given up pretending our lives weren’t irrevocably altered by Dad’s condition.