Mind Games

The kid loved it there. He loved the yard, the squeaky floors in the house, the old barn Ty couldn’t figure out what to do with.

He loved the porches, the trees, and the dog that came to play every afternoon.

Still, while the outside offered plenty of room to run, more than enough for the swing/slide/climb contraption Try was still researching, the house itself didn’t.

If they stayed, it meant adding on, at some point.

They didn’t need huge, but while the dining room could serve as a studio for now, he didn’t want to work right off the kitchen for the long term.

For serious work, he needed a serious space.

And privileged or not, he’d really like having his own bathroom.

Those could wait until he reached a hundred percent on the Be Sure meter.

Plus, he’d probably have to learn to cook a little more than he had in his current repertoire, as delivery was off the table.

But his kid’s happiness took the number one spot, and Jesus, his kid was happy.

After he’d spent most of another afternoon hauling and sorting, Ty looked around at piles of boxes. Some packed to go, some yet unpacked from the delivery van.

At that moment, it all seemed overwhelming.

Leona had loved her little things, and she’d had a long life to collect a lot of them. For the most part, he’d separated out what he felt mattered, had mattered to her. And hadn’t she kept the birthday card he’d made for her when he’d been about eight. Out of purple construction paper, a weird and crooked yellow flower glued on the front. And his own sloppy print.

HAPPY BiRTHdAY!

TO ThE BEST GRANY.

LOVe TY

How could he toss that out? And where the hell should he keep it? Along with every card and letter and postcard he’d ever sent her?

For now he decided back in the faded fabric box where she’d kept them all.

He’d loved her, he’d really loved her, but until he’d come here, started going through her things, he hadn’t realized how much she’d loved him.

And that was more overwhelming.

She’d left him everything she had because she knew he’d honor and respect it.

“I’m trying, Granny.”

But right now, he needed a break not just from the work but the emotional toll of it.

When he looked outside and watched his little boy tossing the ball—decent arm for a four-year-old—for the big-ass dog, he knew how to take it.

He picked up the little pink vase he’d given Leona for Christmas when he’d been about ten. Taking it outside, he set it on the table on the back porch.

Bray charged at him—and so did the big-ass dog.

“Throw the ball, Daddy. Fetch with Bunk!”

So he spent the next twenty minutes throwing the ball, watching boy and dog give chase. And decided on the spot for the play set. He’d settle on one tonight, order it, and get that done.

“It’s about time for Bunk to go home.”

“No, Daddy!”