These are the things I lock away inside myself when I go home and sleep.

  It’s just after seven, and I need to sleep. It’s only Eden’s third day on the job, and as far as I can remember, Sassy’s watching Juniper. My mind goes to shit after a shift like that. It takes some time before I can pull myself from the intensity of the work and get back to the routine of life outside the station.

  Once I’m inside my truck, I slam the door hard, images from the night playing like a movie in my mind. I close my eyes against the memories, but that only makes them easier to see.

  I check my phone, and there’s a photo message from Eden waiting on my phone. It’s only a picture of her legs. She’s sitting on her bed, her legs crossed. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, black nylons, and sexy high heels.

  Eden: Missed u, babe. Missed u bad. This will be waiting for you when you get to my place. Can’t wait for you to move in.

  I’m supposed to go to Eden’s this afternoon after she’s off work and after I get some decent sleep. But I can’t think that far into the future. I can’t reply to her text. I can’t do anything but think about what I saw, and I want to stop thinking about it.

  I’ll be back here tomorrow for the meeting with the therapist, and we’ll all go back over it. It’s usually the same one, somebody the chief calls in from another county.

  It often helps if the person is a total outsider. If the therapist knows the people involved in the traumatic incident, the one that was so bad a whole crew of experienced first responders needed stress debriefing, that makes the whole process a lot tougher.

  Some of the therapists are better than others. Most invite us to talk but let us stay silent if that’s how we need to deal. Intervening early and giving us the chance to get what happened off our chests is supposed to lead to less PTSD, fewer guys like me having real problems because we can’t deal with the stress.

  I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and crank the music up full blast. My ears are ringing by the time I pull into the driveway at my parents’.

  I walk in the front door, a fucking grimace on my face that’s so heavy, my jaw literally hurts. I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen just in time to see my father with his hand under my mother’s robe.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ!” I shout and stagger back. Thankfully, Pops is fully dressed, but he sure as hell was getting a handful of something.

  “Vito.” Ma clutches her robe closed at the top. Her hair and makeup are not done, and I’m shocked to see her not dressed at this hour. “We thought you were going to text us if you were coming back. We assumed you were going to crash at Eden’s.”

  “Plans changed,” I grumble, but then I drop my phone on the counter and brace myself on my palms.

  “Oh shit.” Pops comes around the counter and claps a hand on my shoulder. “What happened, son? Is it Eden?”

  I whip my head up, and my heart practically parkours its way out of my chest. “No.” I shake my head. “Multiple fatalities. It was bad.”

  Ma immediately runs to the sink and starts a kettle for tea. Pops is quiet, but his hand on my shoulder is firm. “When’s the debrief?” he asks, his voice low.

  “Tomorrow,” I say. “Three.”

  Ma gets a mug and drops a tea bag into it, then scurries around gathering fruit and bread for toast while the kettle boils. “Just something light to eat, baby,” she says.

  I nod. This is the routine. This is what it’s like supporting a guy like me with a job like this. This is the shit my siblings don’t see.

  They may think I live with our parents because I’m lazy or directionless. I stay because they are my safe place to land. Always have been.

  “Ma,” I say. “Can you put that tea in a to-go cup? I’m going to grab some fresh clothes and head out.”

  Ma looks to my pops, tears filling her eyes. “You want me to drive you? You look so tired, son.”

  I never like this part, but it’s always a component of the routine. I lie. Not a big lie, but one that will keep the pain that could tear me apart under control, so that it doesn’t shatter the hearts of the people I love.

  “Ma,” I grumble, trying desperately to find some humor but coming up with very little. “Don’t pretend you and Pops won’t get right back to what you were doing when I walked in the second I’m out that door.” I give her a weak smile. “I’m all right.”

  She packs up some fruit and hands me the toast on a paper plate. “Eat this before it gets cold. I’ll have the rest ready when you come down.” She comes around the counter and slips her arms around my waist. She hugs me hard, her soft body going tight. The strength of my tiny mother, the way she’s trying to hug the hurt right out of me… It makes my eyes burn and my nose prickle.

  “All right,” I say, blinking fast and stepping out of her hold. “Thanks, Ma.”

  I head upstairs and throw clothes and toiletries into a gym bag. I don’t think, just grab and shove, until I realize I need socks and underwear, and I grab those too. I head back downstairs, where Ma has a massive casserole carrier waiting for me.

  “I’m sending some leftovers, so you just have to heat up lunch.” Ma shoves the bag of food at me. “You come home tonight or tomorrow if you need us, baby.”

  Her eyes are red, but she’s not crying. Pops grabs the food from Ma and says, “I’ll walk you to your truck.”

  I don’t argue but stop to kiss my mother goodbye before heading to the door, putting on my shoes, and grabbing my keys. Pops is right on my heels, and he goes around the passenger side to put the food on the seat next to my gym bag.

  Then he comes around to the driver’s side. “This is always your home. You don’t need to call.”

  I nod. “Tell Ma to stock up on bleach,” I say, managing a grin. “If I see any more than what I did today, I’m going to need to bleach my eyes.”

  Pops lightly slaps my chest with the back of his hand, then tugs me close for a hug. He watches from the driveway, and I see Ma standing at the door holding the front of her robe closed, waving as I drive away.

  I turn the tunes back on, drown out my thoughts and worries, and focus on driving.

  I’m almost home.

  When I get to Eden’s, Shirley’s car is gone, and the house looks empty. I shoot Sassy a text to see what’s up, and she replies back with two messages—one text and a picture.

  Sassy: Took Junie to the park. Be back later.

  I realize as soon as I let myself into the quiet house how much I was hoping to see Juniper. Somehow seeing her innocent, sweet face and dropping down to play with blocks or a playset would do my heart some good.

  Since Juniper’s at the park and Eden is at work, I shoot a text back to Sassy.

  Me: I let myself in, Sass. I’m at Eden’s house. Going to catch some sleep till you’re back.

  I put the leftovers from Ma away in the kitchen and head upstairs to Eden’s bedroom and change from my jeans into pajama pants and a T-shirt. I climb under the covers and take a picture of my face against her pillows and shoot off a quick text to Eden.

  Me: Rough call at work. I came here instead of my parents’. I needed to be close to you, even if you’re not here. Love you. Have a good day, babe.

  I click send on both the text and the picture, then I get up and close the door and draw the curtains. It’s still really bright in here, so I grab a blanket from the foot of the bed and hang it over the curtain rod to dampen more of the daylight.

  Once it’s dark and quiet, I climb under the covers and put a pillow over my head. I block out all the light and sound and just breathe. I say a prayer for the people whose lives were lost last night. For the guys on my crew. For everyone I love. I breathe deep and catch the light fragrance of Eden’s shampoo. The scent of her hair. The familiar smells comfort me, and I close my eyes. Before I know it, I give in to dreamless sleep.

  When I wake up, I know immediately that I’m not in my small bed back at my parents’. The super-soft sheets and comforter remind me that even though I can’t see for shit, I’m at Eden’s.

  I toss back the blankets and stumble into the attached bathroom. When I click on the light, I see how puffy my eyes are. I splash some cold water on my face and brush my teeth because my mouth feels like a wasteland.

  I see a pencil skirt, a pair of hose, and a white blouse neatly resting on the side of the bathtub, which means Eden must have come home and changed, and I didn’t hear a thing.

  I’m still in pajamas, but I don’t bother changing.

  I check my phone and see that it’s after six. I have messages from my parents, two from Franco, and even one from Benito.

  Word travels fast through the Bianchi family. Ma must have told them I had a rough day.

  I don’t, however, have any messages from Eden.

  I wiggle my toes into my house slippers and head toward the stairs. When I reach the landing, I see Eden holding Juniper. They are swaying in front of the television, which is on at a very low volume. I can hear Eden and Junie quietly singing along with an animated kids movie.

  I just stand there for a minute watching them.

  Eden’s long, soft hair sweeps her back as she sways. She kisses Junie’s cheeks as they watch the show and sing. I can’t believe how quiet the volume is, but I’m sure they don’t need to hear it to know the words.

  Watching them like this, I am overcome by the need to rush down the stairs. To crush them in my arms and keep them close. I want them in my home, in my arms, and in my heart always.

  I was right to come here instead of staying at my parents’.

  This is where I belong.

  This is my family.

  My home.

  I walk down the stairs, calling out softly so I don’t scare the shit out of them. “You didn’t have to stay quiet for my sake.”

  Eden turns, and Juniper squeals out, “Veelo. Veelo.”

  Eden laughs and repeats after her daughter. “Veelo.”

  They meet me at the bottom of the stairs. Eden studies my face. She looks so happy to see me.

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her.

  Her eyes mist, and she grins. “You just want to get some later,” she teases.

  “Did it work?” I ask.

  She waggles her brows at me and moves Junie to one arm, stepping close to fold the three of us together in an awkward family hug. I clutch her tightly and smooch Junie loudly on the cheek.

  “You must be starving,” she says. “We waited to have dinner.”

  “You did?” I ask.

  She nods. “Come on.” She passes Juniper to me, and I cuddle the soft, happy, wiggling thing in my arms.

  “How was the park, Juniper? Did Auntie Sassy take you on the swings?”

  Juniper starts babbling, and I try to follow her very excited syllables while we walk behind Eden into the kitchen. She pulls Juniper’s kiddie seat up to the table, but when I try to put her in her chair, she tightens her arms around my neck. I swap a look with Eden, and she nods, a huge smile on her face.

  Since the little nugget seems to want to stay with me, I sit down in the eating nook and settle her on my lap. She’s drooling, and a little puddle of spit falls on her chin. I wipe it with my thumb and then wipe the drool on my pajama pants.

  The agony of my shift hovers like a shadow behind my back, but my back is strong. Stronger now with my family around me. I’m okay. And I’m going to be okay. Because tonight is just another night.

  We’re going to eat my parents’ leftovers. Put this perfect baby to bed. And then I’m going to ask about Eden’s day. Listen to the stories of her new job. I won’t share what happened because I want to protect her in every way I can. Even from the demons that chase me down. But that’s okay. Because together, we are safe. Together, we are strong enough to weather the job stresses. The money worries. The tears and the laughs. Together, we are home.

  18

  Eden

  I fucked up, and I mean I fucked up bad.

  The last month of my new job has been a blur. I have so many passwords for so many systems, I spend half my time searching for my notes and trying to remember how to do the thousand little things that come up in a day. Gennie must have been the world’s most patient person because almost every morning, I wake up with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking about the notes I’ve taken to try to remember how to do everything.

  It’s not getting any easier. In fact, it’s getting worse.

  Every morning for the last four weeks, I’ve had to drag myself out of bed and remind myself that it’s normal to be completely lost at a new job.

  It’s completely normal to have to ask a thousand questions.

  It’s completely normal to feel like a failure from the moment I pull into the parking lot until the moment I pull back out at the end of my workday.

  As far as employers go, Michelle has been great. Friendly, positive, patient. She’s strict, though, and I can sense her losing patience with me as the days creep by.

  The other day, I was technically not on a lunch break but was so desperate not to feel stupid for five minutes, I started reading a book on my phone. Of course, that was the exact time that Michelle walked out and caught me reading. She was not happy, and she asked if I had spare time, if I would please ring her so she could train me on some other aspect of the business.

  I felt ashamed. I mean, I’ve had jobs before. Lots of them. I started working the second I could get a work permit at fifteen. I know better than to slack off while I’m on the clock, but this is nothing like what I expected.

  I’m learning nothing about money and finances but a lot about running a small office, how many software systems it takes to run a small business, and how intimate it is working day-to-day with only a handful of people around to ask for help.

  When Michelle asks me for something, I feel this intensity, like she’s counting the seconds until I get the job done. It’s not like she’s mean or pressuring me; it’s just how she runs her company. She’s good at what she does. She talks to a lot of people, makes a lot of calls. Is hands on with everything. Which really sucks when you’re the person who seems not to know how to do anything.

  And then, I made a mistake.

  A big, big mistake.

  I know it’s only been a month, but the very first day I started, Gennie trained me on the small stuff. Using the calendar system so Michelle always knows when she has in-office appointments. How to take messages so nothing ever gets lost. Don’t even ask me how many times I got locked out of my voice mail because I punched in the wrong password.

  Yesterday was incredibly busy. A call came in from a very wealthy client. I still think of all the clients as rich people. No matter how many times Michelle tries to tell me to use one of the more delicate phrases—high-net-worth individuals or some such—they are all just rich people to me.

  So, a guy in town who owns like three commercial properties wanted to ask Michelle if she could get him a better rate on something than what he was about to get from his current adviser.

  He said he hated to rush her, but he was going out of town and wanted to make a quick decision. I honestly didn’t understand half of what he said.

  All I do know is that he said he hoped Michelle would call him right back. I let him know she was in a meeting in her office with an appointment, took his information, and uploaded the details to the system.

  I didn’t think about it again until five minutes ago when I got to my desk and found Michelle waiting for me, her lips an unusually angry line.

  “Eden,” she says. “Do you remember putting Randall Tomlinson into the system yesterday?”

  No good morning. No how are you. She hits me with this question, and the only thing I can think of when she says Tomlinson is a guy from a very famous boy band. I put like three new people into the system yesterday, but I don’t know which one she’s referring to.

  “I think so,” I say, already starting to sweat. “Did I do something wrong, Michelle?”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “You tell me.” She nods toward the computer on my desk and stands over me while I rack my brain to try to think of who this guy is and why she’s making a big show of asking me about him.

  My fingers are shaking as I try to log in, but Michelle groans and waves me away. “Let me,” she says.

  I literally get up out of my chair and stand over her as she sits at my desk, taps a million miles an hour at the keyboard, and pulls up a screen on the system I swear I’ve never seen.

  “Look here,” she says, pointing at the monitor with a finger. “This morning, I ran a report of all the new entries in the database. Three new contacts were entered yesterday.” She points to one name and shows me a field where the other financial adviser, Glenn, made contact with the client and made a bunch of notes about the plan of action.

  “I see,” I say quietly because I do see it, but I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

  “And this one.” Michelle sounds just plain tired now. “See this note here?”

  I bend a little closer and see that Michelle herself put in a note this morning disqualifying the person because of a pending bankruptcy.

  “Yes, that lead is unqualified,” I say, hoping like hell I’ve used the right words.

  “And what’s missing here?” she asks. She opens the client data screen for this Tomlinson person.

  “Nothing?” I ask. “No adviser assessment or contact was made?”

  She slams a hand down on the desk. “Yes. Do you know why that is?” she asks.

  I’m starting to get really sick of this game. “Michelle, please don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” I say. “If I made a mistake, please just say it. Show me what I did, and I’ll make notes about what you want so I can try not to do it again.”

  I can’t keep the irritation from my voice. This job sucks. I’ve been feeling it and thinking it. It’s not Michelle. It’s the whole business. I want to understand how to manage my money. I don’t want to put a million transactions into a million systems and get called on the carpet like I’m an idiot. Maybe I am an idiot. Maybe I just don’t care enough. Whatever it is, I’m starting to believe this job—this field, even—is not for me.