“How do I make that right?” he asked, his beautiful eyes bleak and I vowed I’d hate Neeta until the day she died for making my man look that way.

I swallowed a sob-induced hiccough and shook my head. “I don’t know. I just know you will.”

It was his turn to shake his head. “You believe that?”

“I believe you can do anything.”

The minute I said it his face changed and, I swear to God, he looked just like his son did two nights before. He stared up at me with astonished marvel.

“Christ, you actually think that,” he whispered, his eyes studying my face.

“No,” I replied and my fingers gave him a squeeze. “I know it.”

“Dad.” We heard and we both turned, Tate twisting further to look at Jonas who was standing just outside the side garage door. Jonas rubbed a hand jerkily along his cheek to wipe away tears and I saw that hand was shaking. “Dad,” he repeated like he didn’t know what to say.

“You get a shower at your Grandpop’s last night?” Tate asked, his voice low and even.

Jonas blinked, openly surprised at Tate’s even tone delivering a normal, everyday question. I turned to look at Tate and saw him start to swing off the bike.

And I knew from watching him he’d done it. He’d locked down the fury. He’d found a way to control it even with what caused it and even being justified having it.

I was right. He could do anything.

I moved out of his way and Jonas answered as Tate stopped moving at my side.

“Yeah.”

I looked back at Jonas and heard Tate order gently, “Then go change your clothes, Bub, while Laurie makes breakfast.”

Jonas swallowed again but otherwise didn’t move.

Then he asked, “You mad?”

“Yeah,” Tate answered instantly.

“At Mom?” Jonas went on.

“Yeah,” Tate repeated.

“She’s –” Jonas started, I knew he was going to defend her, I opened my mouth to speak in order to intervene should that set Tate off again but Tate got there before me.

“She’s Neeta, Jonas. I know what she is. Go change.”

“It’s just how she is,” Jonas said quietly.

“Yeah,” Tate answered. “Change your clothes, Bub.”

“She can’t help it, it’s just how she is.” Jonas kept at it.

Tate walked to his son, I held back and watched Jonas brace.

Tate put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I know. I know it’s how she is. Don’t make it right. That shit isn’t right, Jonas. All I can say now is, it’s over. Yeah?”

Jonas, his head tipped way back to look up at his father, nodded.

Then he whispered, “She’ll be alone, without me.”

He was struggling with his decision.

I closed my eyes, fresh tears forced themselves out and I clenched my teeth against the whimper gurgling in my throat.

I opened my eyes when Tate spoke. “Her turn. I get you now.”

“Blake isn’t –” Jonas started.

“He was her choice. You’re young, Bub, but I’m tellin’ you this because you gotta know, she coulda had me. I made that clear more times than years you been alive. She chose him. Bein’ free, that means I got to choose Laurie so now she’ll never get another shot at me. You live with your life’s choices. Your Mom, she’s an adult, she’s made choices, she’s gotta live with ‘em. You’re smart, you f**k up, you learn from that. She doesn’t learn. That’s her choice too. I spent years tryin’ to shield her from her choices, didn’t work. I’m not gonna let you do it and I’m not gonna teach you that someone’s gonna shield you from shit. You gotta learn too. You make choices, they’re yours and you gotta take responsibility for them.” He jerked his head to the house and his voice got quiet when he went on. “You made a choice in there, Bub. I know you struggled with it, probably been strugglin’ with it for awhile, but it was the right one.” Tate’s hand gave Jonas’s shoulder a gentle tug. “Trust me, it was the right one.”

Jonas stared up at his father for several long, agonizing moments before he nodded again.

“Now, Bub, do what I asked. Go get changed. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jonas whispered then continued. “You’re not gonna go –”

Tate squatted in front of his boy.

“No. I’m here with you and Laurie. We’re gonna have breakfast. We’re gonna go to the hospital to see Shambles. And, if you’re lucky, we’re gonna talk Laurie into makin’ you chocolate chip cookies like her Gram used to make.”

“We still have cake,” Jonas said like having chocolate chip cookies and cake in the house was a treasure trove of goodies that was too good to believe was real.

“I could do with a cookie,” I put in and both Jackson boys turned their eyes to me. “Or two,” I finished.

“Are they good?” Jonas asked me.

“She refrigerated the dough before she made them,” I answered like this would make any sense to him, which, from his small, confused grin, it didn’t.

The confusion left his face and he asked, “Can I have some dough?”

“No,” I lied and communicated that it was a lie by smiling at him.

Jonas looked at his Dad who was watching me. Tate’s head slowly turned to his son when Jonas spoke.

“She’s full of it. She’s so gonna let me eat dough.”

“Laurie’s full of it a lot,” Tate shared.

“I am not!” I snapped, only partly annoyed by this blasphemy, mostly I was just glad that the latest drama appeared to be over and I wasn’t crying anymore.

Tate straightened from the crouch, ignored my snap and commanded, “Babe, get your ass in the house and make breakfast.”

I crossed my arms on my chest and glared at him. “First, babe, don’t say ‘ass’ in front of Jonas and second, don’t tell me to make breakfast.”

Tate’s eyebrows went up. “You intend to starve my boy?”

“No, I’ll make breakfast for me and Jonas. You can make yourself a bowl of cereal.”

Tate burst out laughing, his hand snaking out to hook his son around the neck and pull him into his side. When he did, Jonas’s arms slid around Tate’s middle and he pressed himself to his Dad’s frame.