the backseat. “I realize it's not every day a person gets married, but she needs to chill.”
“How's the groom handling things?”
“He hides. The coward.” Helena gave her short black hair a quick look in the mirror, fluffing out imaginary things which Evan assumed needed to be gone. Her hair looked the same when she was done.
“The man is a decorated police officer, Evan. Why won't he stand up to her?”
“Because Vic is a smart man?” Evan offered. The upcoming marriage of Helena's mother, Serena Abbott, and their captain, Vic Wolkowski, was at once joyous and mind-blowing. Helena was going to briefly be the stepdaughter of their boss, though his retirement was already in the works, much to Helena's relief. How awkward would morning meetings be with your stepdad?
“Humph. I'm not wearing periwinkle. I don't care if she thinks I'll look like Liz Taylor,” Helena mumbled, reaching over for the binoculars. “Still nothing. Oh my God, this is ridiculous.”
The ridiculous waste of time—and the wedding talk—lasted another three hours. Evan parked his car in the garage and checked the dashboard clock.
It was 12:07 a.m.
Cursing under his breath, he stepped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and headed through the garage into the mudroom off the darkened kitchen. He could smell the remnants of dinner and hear the rumble of the television set—but no kids, no family noise. He'd missed another evening with his kids.
The house was different, but the reality was the same. During all those years with his late wife Sherri, he'd experienced this moment over and over. She'd held down the fort—ran the house, raised the children, made a happy loving home for all of them. After she died, he tried to do that, tried to make the same sort of place for their four children, but that didn't work so well.
More and more he was realizing that Matt saved them all from Evan's fumbling attempts to keep it all together. More and more he was realizing that things falling into place meant Evan had failed as a father—lover? boyfriend? He still hadn't hit upon a term that worked—and someone else picked up his slack.
Matt was the one who did the food shopping and made sure everyone got where they needed to on time. He helped with homework; he broke up arguments over the remote and the last cookie and the bathroom.
Evan just floated in and out when he had the time, like his time in the house was a guest appearance. He knew the kids went to Matt with their problems, big and small. Even Miranda, the eldest and least enthused about her father's choice of partners, spent more time on the phone with Matt than Evan.
The guilt ate up at his stomach like an angry ulcer.
He knew Matt was up waiting for him, but he didn't call out, not just yet. His coat was hung up in the mudroom, shoes under the bench. (Was that new? He didn't remember it.) He plugged his BlackBerry in, then dragged his feet into the kitchen.
Dinner was, indeed, in the microwave. Evan pressed one minute and waited for the noise to pull Matt into the kitchen. But even after the annoying tone that signaled his lasagna was warm, Matt still didn't appear.
Evan took his dinner, silverware, and a beer into the living room, following the sounds of voices. But what he presumed was the television was actually Matt chatting away on his cell phone.
Pausing, Evan waited to catch enough of the conversation to guess who it was. It didn't take long or much skill; their East Coast friends would all be asleep by now. The only person Matt talked to regularly who'd be awake right now was Jim Shea.
Evan swallowed a scowl.
He'd never been the jealous type, more because he married the first person he loved than because of any superior character trait. And yes, he understood he and Matt were technically broken up when Matt and some cop from Seattle named Jim hooked up for one night. He understood their (albeit strange) subsequent friendship.
Okay, he tried to understand their
“How's the groom handling things?”
“He hides. The coward.” Helena gave her short black hair a quick look in the mirror, fluffing out imaginary things which Evan assumed needed to be gone. Her hair looked the same when she was done.
“The man is a decorated police officer, Evan. Why won't he stand up to her?”
“Because Vic is a smart man?” Evan offered. The upcoming marriage of Helena's mother, Serena Abbott, and their captain, Vic Wolkowski, was at once joyous and mind-blowing. Helena was going to briefly be the stepdaughter of their boss, though his retirement was already in the works, much to Helena's relief. How awkward would morning meetings be with your stepdad?
“Humph. I'm not wearing periwinkle. I don't care if she thinks I'll look like Liz Taylor,” Helena mumbled, reaching over for the binoculars. “Still nothing. Oh my God, this is ridiculous.”
The ridiculous waste of time—and the wedding talk—lasted another three hours. Evan parked his car in the garage and checked the dashboard clock.
It was 12:07 a.m.
Cursing under his breath, he stepped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and headed through the garage into the mudroom off the darkened kitchen. He could smell the remnants of dinner and hear the rumble of the television set—but no kids, no family noise. He'd missed another evening with his kids.
The house was different, but the reality was the same. During all those years with his late wife Sherri, he'd experienced this moment over and over. She'd held down the fort—ran the house, raised the children, made a happy loving home for all of them. After she died, he tried to do that, tried to make the same sort of place for their four children, but that didn't work so well.
More and more he was realizing that Matt saved them all from Evan's fumbling attempts to keep it all together. More and more he was realizing that things falling into place meant Evan had failed as a father—lover? boyfriend? He still hadn't hit upon a term that worked—and someone else picked up his slack.
Matt was the one who did the food shopping and made sure everyone got where they needed to on time. He helped with homework; he broke up arguments over the remote and the last cookie and the bathroom.
Evan just floated in and out when he had the time, like his time in the house was a guest appearance. He knew the kids went to Matt with their problems, big and small. Even Miranda, the eldest and least enthused about her father's choice of partners, spent more time on the phone with Matt than Evan.
The guilt ate up at his stomach like an angry ulcer.
He knew Matt was up waiting for him, but he didn't call out, not just yet. His coat was hung up in the mudroom, shoes under the bench. (Was that new? He didn't remember it.) He plugged his BlackBerry in, then dragged his feet into the kitchen.
Dinner was, indeed, in the microwave. Evan pressed one minute and waited for the noise to pull Matt into the kitchen. But even after the annoying tone that signaled his lasagna was warm, Matt still didn't appear.
Evan took his dinner, silverware, and a beer into the living room, following the sounds of voices. But what he presumed was the television was actually Matt chatting away on his cell phone.
Pausing, Evan waited to catch enough of the conversation to guess who it was. It didn't take long or much skill; their East Coast friends would all be asleep by now. The only person Matt talked to regularly who'd be awake right now was Jim Shea.
Evan swallowed a scowl.
He'd never been the jealous type, more because he married the first person he loved than because of any superior character trait. And yes, he understood he and Matt were technically broken up when Matt and some cop from Seattle named Jim hooked up for one night. He understood their (albeit strange) subsequent friendship.
Okay, he tried to understand their
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