Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy
Bananapants: Chapter 25

“Do you think God stays in heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he’s created here on earth?”

— Spy Kids 2 (2002)

“Desmond.” Henri stared at Desmond’s hand on my waist. His gaze then cut to mine, no longer warm. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Are you? Weren’t you the one who asked me to reach out to Ava?” Des pulled me even closer. “Thanks to you, we reconnected over the weekend.”

Henri asked Des to contact me?

Henri blinked, his attention shifting to Desmond. “I see.” Gone were his interest and politeness, leaving a cold, calculating quality to his tone and features.

“What were you guys talking about? Was there a fire at your office?” Desmond tilted his head to the side, his voice full of concern.

It was at this point I decided it was best for me to remain quiet unless directly asked a question. This was the advice I gave clients before they underwent a deposition: volunteer nothing, only speak when directly asked an actual question, and only answer the precise question asked. No more, no less.

Henri rolled his eyes, shoving a hand into his pants pocket. “Not a literal fire, Desmond. Just so much going on, I was putting out fires. You know.”

“Ohhh.” Desmond nodded, smiling cutely. “That makes sense.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t know why Des was pretending to be Henri’s himbo one minute and breaking into the guy’s office the next. I hadn’t asked Des about his relationship with Henri and I didn’t plan on asking.

My mother had once told me something about interacting with people who operated in various lines of work similar to her own, whether it be an undercover CIA agent or a high-level executive at a global security company. She’d said, “With family and loved ones, ‘need to know’ is more about protecting them than it is about protecting the secret.”

Henri’s gaze shifted to mine, held, and he addressed his question to me. “So, you two . . . ?”

“Yes.” Desmond nodded and answered for us. “Our parents are thrilled. Right, Bunny?”

I felt myself draw back in reaction to Desmond calling me Bunny, which meant I needed to cover for the unintended movement, a mistake that definitely wouldn’t go unnoticed by Henri Wickford.

Before I could second-guess how my brain always took everything to the absolute extreme and I seemed to be in a competition with myself for the most ridiculous behavior of an adult woman possible, I turned to Des and—pitching my voice high—said, “That’s right, Daddy.”

Des’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. Glancing at Henri, I found him gaping at me wearing a similar expression. In fact, now that I surveyed my guards, their faces were mirrors of Henri’s and Des’s.

Well, good. I would take advantage of everyone’s stunned speechlessness to make our hasty exit.

“Bye forever, Henri.” I slipped my hand into Desmond’s and pulled him toward the waiting SUV, careful to keep us both under his medium-sized umbrella.

We were almost at the car when Henri yelled after me, “Ava. Ava, wait⁠—”

“Don’t call, don’t write!” I jumped into the car’s back seat and scooched to the far side, giving Desmond room and shivering. I was wet and cold and ready to go home and drink something warm and get under a blanket.

Des folded the umbrella and entered after me, shutting the door. Jacob climbed into the front passenger seat and the other two guards stayed behind, perhaps to run interference with Henri, leaving Des and me alone in the back seat together.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I leaned my head back against the headrest. “What a weird day.”

The sound of the privacy screen being lifted had me opening my eyes. I was about to question Des about closing the screen when—as soon as we were sealed off from Jacob and the driver—he faced me.

“Daddy?!”

“What?” I frowned.

“I can’t believe you did that!”

I crossed my arms, acutely aware that my nipples were starting to pebble and my bra wasn’t padded to hide them. Stupid rain! Stupid Henri! “You called me Bunny.”

“Yeah. Bunny. Not Mommy!” Des looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or yell or what.

“So what? I wanted him to leave me alone, and you’re the one who told him we’re together. I was taking my cues from you.”

Des seemed to struggle for a moment, only strangled sounds emerging from him, before he spit out, “You can’t call your boyfriend Daddy in public!”

“Says who? I thought you didn’t know how to be a boyfriend.”

“Ava!”

“Desmond!”

Releasing a rough noise—sorta like a growl, sorta like a huff—he pushed himself back in the seat and covered his face with his hands. I thought I heard him say something like, “What am I going to do with you?” but the words were muffled.

Inspecting him, I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment, a sting of likely irrational hurt making my chest tight. I’d expected Des to laugh at this, not whatever reaction he was having.

“Well, whatever,” I grumbled, irritated by my urge to shiver. I was now officially really cold. “I know I’m a lot. I don’t know when to stop a joke or—or—I know I take things too far. I know it’s childish to always quote movies and TV shows and—and⁠—”

Des grabbed my face and kissed me, interrupting my little rant. He kissed me deeply, hungrily, his fingers curling around my neck. And he only pulled away when I felt breathless.

Holding me in place, Des ensnared my eyes with his. “Ava. The reason you can’t call me Daddy in public is because for many men—not all, but many—it’s like a secret magical word that gets them hot for their partner.”

I needed to absorb this information for a moment. When I finally did, I made a gagging face. “Oh! That’s—” My rational brain wanted to say gross. But then I recalled all the things we’d done yesterday, how he’d touched me and the words he’d spoken, how he’d asked if I touched myself. Prior to yesterday, if a man had asked me if I touched myself, I would’ve thought he was gross.

Context matters. And the person matters. And context plus the right person made a huge difference. Things that might be gag-inducing in the wrong context or with the wrong person magically became sexy when both were just right.

Des wasn’t finished, and while he spoke, he took off his jacket and covered me. “And I never thought I was one of those guys. In fact, I’ve never liked it, immediate mood killer. But when you said it just now . . .”

“Really?” I felt myself smile, but then a thought occurred to me and I gripped the jacket tight to my front as though shielding myself from an unsavory offer. “For the record, I don’t have a daddy kink. Not at all. I mean, it’s fine if people do—yay daddy kink!—but I don’t.”

He tugged at his tie, loosening it. “I know you were joking. If I’d been prepared for it and Henri hadn’t been there, I would’ve laughed.” Des gently pushed his fingers into my wet hair, one palm circling back to cup my cheek. “You’re hilarious, Ava. I love how funny you are.”

Something in me untwisted. Des thought it was funny. He didn’t think I was too much or had taken the joke too far. He thought I was hilarious.

I grinned widely, pressing my cheek into his warm hand, covering the back of it with my own. “But it gets you hot when I call you Daddy?”

“Don’t ask me why. I have no idea.” A series of emotions passed over his features—disbelief, concern, humor, acceptance—and he returned my smile with a self-deprecating, adorable one. “When you say it? Yeah.”

I couldn’t help but think how much I loved being around Des. I’d always loved him as a person, but his company and his person were two entirely different things. I loved both. I wish he would kiss me again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, leaning forward an inch.

“Uh . . .” I debated whether to admit what I wanted, but decided against it when another pressing thought occurred to me. “Wait, so, what’s up with Henri?”

Now Des leaned back an inch. “You’re thinking about Henri?”

“Yes. Of—of course. We haven’t discussed his royal creepiness, or what happened Friday.” I sensed Des stiffen, so I rushed to add, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask anything about your work or your alter ego. But I would like to know why he’s so insistent about talking to me. Alex and I think I was caught in the cross fire on Friday—wrong place, wrong time kind of thing—but if that’s not true, if I’m in real danger from this guy, I’d like to know. First on Friday, using the assumed name to lure me over to his office, saying he bought me a bunch of gifts”—Des closed his eyes, his chin dropping—“and then locking me in his office. I found out today he somehow faked an interoffice memo from my boss. How could he do that? Does he have someone working at my firm? And you said he asked you to contact me? Then he shows up today. He said he was there to return my things, but he seems sorta fixated on me. Do you know why?”

Des’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath and he lifted his eyes to mine, but not his face. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“I intercepted the gifts Henri sent you. He has no idea. He thinks they were delivered. And I’ve been screening your calls to ensure he didn’t reach out. Not listening, just checking the numbers. Sue has been reading your emails though, to make sure he didn’t contact you that way.”

“You—you did what?” I must’ve misheard him.

Unbuckling his seat belt, Des shifted to the center seat and fastened the lap belt. “Henri Wickford is a dangerous—evil and dangerous—person. If you want more details from someone other than me, we can talk to Alex together. I will have to check in with Alex about this memo you mentioned, I didn’t know about that, and we should make sure Henri doesn’t have someone at your office that can get to you. I don’t know why he’s fixated on you, but you’re right. He is. When he took an interest in you at the Haewthorn Society a few weeks ago, that was unusual for him but not unheard of. He has a history of fixating on specific women. Usually, with most people, he doesn’t take an interest unless he feels they’d be useful, and usually based on who their family is.”

This was too much. I was so confused. “Wait, you—I—how does he think I’d be useful?”

“I don’t—I don’t think he—” Des sighed like he was frustrated or irritated, or both. “He did ask me to reach out to you when I saw him Saturday.”

My stomach dropped. “Is that why—is that why you came to the bar Sunday? Is that⁠—”

“No! No, no, no.” Des grabbed my shoulders. “I tracked you down at the bar because I wanted to see you. It had nothing to do with Henri and everything to do with—uh—you kissing me goodbye when you left.”

“Oh.” My stomach did a U-turn and little baby butterflies fluttered in my abdomen. I stared at him. He stared at me. I cleared my throat. “Well. Good. But back to Henri, why did he want you to contact me?”

“It’s partially my fault. When it became clear you were caught in the cross fire on Friday, I took you with me when I left. He might suspect you and the thief—that is, me—are working together. Sorry.”

“He needs an intervention if he thinks that. He’s the one who called me over there under false pretenses, using that fake memo. I had no idea I was meeting him.”

Des nodded. “I agree. But now I think he’s curious as to why the thief took you and what happened after. Now he’ll want to talk to you to get information about it.”

Considering this, I studied Des. “Then why did he invite me to his office in the first place?”

“I think he’s attracted to you,” he said grimly, his hands dropping from my shoulders. “He likes you. And if his history with women is anything to go by, that makes him even more dangerous.”

“Likes me?” I made a face, struggling to recall what I might’ve said or done that would’ve inspired Henri to like me. “I barely spoke to him at the marriage thing.”

“You make an impression,” Des mumbled under his breath, but I caught it.

Ignoring that for now, I went back to something he’d said earlier. “What about the gifts? You said you intercepted gifts? And tapped my phone?”

Des seemed to steel himself. “I didn’t tap your phone. I screened the numbers. But, as I said, Sue did read your emails. I didn’t. I made sure all the items—gifts—he sent were waylaid. If you want them, they’re in the mail room of your building. I can tell you where. Except the flowers. The flowers were redirected to random offices, the cards removed. Actually, given how easy it was to misdirect his gifts and how he didn’t seem to know they were misdirected, I suspect Henri doesn’t have someone working for him at your office. Maybe he had one of his men place the memo on your desk that day, an in-and-out job. Regardless, we should check with Alex about your coworkers just to be . . .”

Des trailed off as he inspected me, perhaps finally noticing the severity of my frown.

I required several seconds to process this information and then several more to decide how I felt about it. Des sat silent and watchful. When I finally focused on him again, he appeared to be holding his breath.

I crossed my arms under the warmth of his suit jacket. “So, on the one hand, Henri is a bad guy. I agree. Really bad. And dangerous.”

Des exhaled a rush of air.

I wasn’t finished. “On the other hand, I’m really angry with you for intercepting the gifts, screening my calls, and reading my emails.”

He grimaced, but didn’t break eye contact or try to make excuses.

“I promised you, in return for attending my parents’ barbecue, I would not make contact with Henri Wickford.”

“You did promise.” He nodded, wide-eyed, eyebrows pulled together with contrition. Like a puppy.

But I would not be swayed by his puppy dog eyes!

“You could’ve just—you know—trusted me. If I say I’ll do something, I will. I made a promise, right? If I’d received the gifts, I would’ve refused delivery and had them returned. If he’d tried to call me or email me, I would’ve hung up, blocked his number, or ignored the email and sent it to spam. You could’ve told me he had a history of becoming obsessive and the bad kind of weird around women. That information would’ve been very helpful when I was tricked into going to the Harding Building.”

Des continued to nod, his eyes big and round and so remorseful. “I’m sorry, Ava. You’re right. I’m sorry. I hate it when people do this kind of shit to me, make my decisions for me or leave out essential information so I can’t make educated decisions, and I’m so fucking sorry I did it to you.” As he apologized, one of his arms lifted and rested on the back of my seat, his other hand inched closer to my leg, like he wanted to touch me, but wasn’t sure I’d allow it.

Glaring, I inspected him. He was strange. This was strange. Who immediately admits wrongdoing and perfectly describes the key points of the aforementioned wrongdoing while apologizing? I’d never had a boyfriend readily admit wrongdoing. Usually, they argued. Or they’d fake apologize with a qualifier which shifted the blame back to me like, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” or “If that made you mad, then I apologize.” Or they’d act confused and stubbornly refuse to understand why I was upset, like I was being irrational. But not Des.

Was he being sincere?

“Are you actually sorry?” I asked, glaring at him from the corners of my eyes. “Or is this some sort of boyfriend apology practice for when you get a real girlfriend?” As the words left my mouth they tasted sour.

Des’s frown was immediate and severe. The hand that had been inching toward my leg made the leap and landed on my thigh, slipping under where his suit jacket covered me like a blanket. “What? No! I am sorry. You are right. I was wrong, you are right. I will always be honest with you from now on. I will never withhold information. I will not make decisions for you. I will trust you. I promise.”

Giving him one last disgruntled look, I turned my attention toward the front of the car, his apparent sincerity and willingness to take responsibility, understand the issue, and apologize without qualifiers completely perplexing. Who does that?

I felt his eyes on my profile and the heat of his hand on my leg and the press of his body next to mine. His closeness frustrated me for some reason, and in an odd way. Despite being wet from the rain, my neck was hot.

“Ava.”

“What?” I snapped.

“I know you’re angry.” He did that thing with his voice where he deepened it, like he’d done yesterday in the kitchen.

I fought another shiver, but remained silent. Not because I was playing games or giving him the cold shoulder. I was honestly confused, tangled up in knots. In fact, I was more confused than angry at this point.

“I will make it up to you,” he said, his hand on my leg shifting down to my knee, squeezing. “I will show you I trust you, and that you can trust me.” He tilted his head to the side, clearly trying to catch my eyes.

I turned my face to the window, my insides wonky as the anger deflated into sadness. It wasn’t like we were in a real relationship anyway. It wasn’t like I could actually count on him. He’d be leaving in a few weeks or less. This wasn’t something long-term, this was us trading lessons. If we were really dating, I would have a right to be mad. But we weren’t. So what difference did it make?

And if we were really dating, I would’ve made him explain himself for leaving ten years ago.

“Ava?” He hunted for one of my hands beneath his jacket, pulling me out of my reflections and forcing me to unfold my arms. “I promise, I will make it up to you.”

Feeling defeated by reality, I sighed and faced him. “Forget about it. I’ll get over it.” I let him see I wasn’t angry anymore.

His contrite eyebrows were replaced with concerned ones. “I’m not going to forget it. How about dinner tonight? I’ll make⁠—”

“I can’t tonight.”

He stared at me and I let him. “You have plans,” he finally guessed.

“Yes.” I rested my temple against the headrest. “I’m actually going to the Tuesday knit night. It’s at your mom’s place. Do you want to go?”

“No, thank you.” Des tucked several strands of damp hair behind my ear, his voice quiet. “Have fun.”

Something about his tone struck me. He looked like he was trying to hide his disappointment.

“You’re going to miss me?” I asked, immediately wishing I could take the words back.

Des stared at me, his features unreadable, and a voice in my head reminded me again that we weren’t dating for real.

“I mean, not me,” I rushed to clarify. “I meant, you’ll miss having boyfriend lessons, right? You’ve already given me a lesson, so I owe you a les⁠—”

Reaching for my arms, Des kissed me again, interrupting my explanation. His hands moved to my lower back and tugged me forward against him, as far as the seat belt would allow. He then slid his fingers to my legs, pushing down his jacket, and lifted them, placing my calves on his lap, his tongue and lips skillfully chasing mine and making my toes curl in my shoes.

When he lifted his head, his gaze settled on my lips. “Ava. I missed you all day. And I will miss you tonight.” This also sounded sincere.

Maybe we were trading lessons, a fact I should definitely not forget. Even so, I did allow myself to enjoy his words. Just a little bit.

He waited until I gave him a small smile before his eyes connected with mine. I couldn’t hold his gaze, so I ducked my head. He sure kisses me a lot.

I heard Des clear his throat before asking, “Is it okay for me, as your boyfriend, to ask that you let me know when you make it back home safely? Send me a text or call?”

“That’s fine.” I ignored the heat of his hand on my upper thigh and glanced out the window behind him. We were almost at his parents’ building. “Are you sure you don’t want to come tonight? I know your mom would love to see you.”

“I saw her on Sunday, before I met up with you at the bar.” Picking up my hand, he held it between both of his. “But you should borrow some of Natalie’s clothes when you get up there. She leaves stuff at my parents’ place and you two are about the same size now, I think.”

“Oh. Cool.” I peeked at him and my heart twisted, a sudden thought tightening my throat. How much longer do I have him before he disappears again?

Yesterday, he’d said he’d stay in Chicago and I could decide how long we swapped lessons, but he couldn’t have meant longer than a month. Two months, tops. I should ask. I should ask how long, so I could prepare myself.

“Natalie might be there tonight,” he said, studying my fingers.

I bent my head toward his. “Will she? Is she back from college?”

“Yes.” He made a considering face, like he was engaging in an internal debate, then began haltingly, “If she says anything about a group chat, promise me you’ll cover your ears and sing at the top of your lungs. Don’t listen to her.”

“Why—”

“Promise me.” Bringing my hand to his cheek, he pressed it there. “Ignore her. Okay?”

Because he was so cute, and I wanted to make the most of the short time we had, I nodded instead of questioning him. “Okay, fine. I promise.”

Aunt Janie and Uncle Quinn still lived in their two-floor penthouse apartment. They’d moved out for a few years, gave the single-family-home life a try, but ultimately preferred being downtown, with a panoramic view of the city, Grant Park, and Lake Michigan. And who would blame them?

Bonus, they owned the high-rise apartment building and therefore managed the security for it. Which meant, once I entered the building, my guards didn’t follow me, set free to go home or do whatever they wished. If Jacob and my security detail followed the Cipher Security modus operandi from the last few times a team had been placed on one of us kids, at least two security guards would be sleeping at my apartment tonight. I made a mental note to borrow a blanket from Aunt Janie.

The doorman knew me, the elevator was programmed for my thumbprint, and I had the special Tuesday night code for their penthouse. Only a few minutes late, I slipped off my high heels and grabbed the pair of yellow house shoes I’d been using for the last several years. A ruckus of laughter erupted from the living room, but I made a beeline for Natalie’s bedroom first to change into something dry.

Des had been right. His sister had a whole closet of clothes to pick from and I selected worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, knowing she wouldn’t mind. I let her raid my closet whenever she visited me. Once I finished changing, I hung my wet clothes on the towel bars in her bathroom and made my way to the kitchen. Still chilly, I wondered what kind of tea they had on hand. And food. Yay food!

“Oh!” I halted as soon as I rounded the corner to the kitchen. “Hey, Uncle Quinn. How’s it hanging?”

Des’s dad stood at the island, layering pieces of salami inside what looked like a champagne glass. He glanced up at my arrival, then lifted his chin in greeting. “It’s hanging. How are things with you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain.” I strolled over to their super fancy, built-in coffee maker and selected the hot water option. “Tell me, I must know, why are you putting salami in a champagne glass?” Grabbing a mug from a nearby cupboard, I placed it under the dispenser in time to capture the hot water.

He sighed, looking resigned. “I’m making a meat rosette.”

“A meat rosette,” I echoed, sauntering to him and stealing two slices. “That sounds like something one might replace at an all-male strip club.”

He wrinkled his nose in a fair attempt at fighting a laugh, lost, and then laughed. “I wouldn’t know about that, Ava. But I bet your aunt Sandra does.”

“She probably does.” I ate the two salami slices, and this is usually where the conversation would end. But for some reason, I kept looking at Des’s dad while I chewed and swallowed. My feet wouldn’t move.

He also continued to look at me, his expression patient, mostly. One of his eyebrows inched upward. “Are those Natalie’s clothes?”

“Yes. I’m borrowing them. I got caught in the rain today on my way here. So, I have a question for you, Quinn.” I’d dropped the “uncle” purposefully, wanting to approach him as an equal.

He may have been the owner of a giant global security empire and I may have been a mere second-year junior attorney, but we were both gainfully employed, and I assumed he paid taxes. Therefore, equals.

“Go for it.” His eyes sparkled with transparent amusement.

Des’s dad had always found me amusing. When I was a kid, he’d toss me in the air and I’d laugh hysterically. For some reason, as a kid, being thrown in the air is the best thing in the world, and Uncle Quinn would oblige longer than anyone else, for a long time after my own dad had grown tired and complained about his arms turning to noodles. But not Uncle Quinn. At the time, he seemed fueled by kid giggles. If we were still giggling, he was still throwing.

However, I doubted he’d replace me or my question amusing this time.

No use beating around the bush. “Why don’t you like Desmond?”

He blinked, his features falling, his eyes growing round. Uncle Quinn’s answer came immediately, even before he’d recovered his composure. “I do. I do like Desmond. I like him. I love him.”

“Then why don’t you two hang out? My dad and Jack hang out all the time when Jack isn’t on the road touring. Sometimes my dad flies to wherever Jack is performing and they hang out there.”

Uncle Quinn appeared abruptly tired, turning to the sink to wash his hands. “It’s . . . complicated.”

“Does it need to be?” I placed a hand on his shoulder when he returned to the island. “Like, why complicate it? You’re his dad. He’s your kid. Isn’t that enough?”

Drying his hands on a towel, Uncle Quinn stared at me, still looking tired but his mouth seemed to curve a wee little bit. “You’re something else, Ava.”

“Why, thank you!” I squeezed his shoulder, grinning like this was the nicest compliment I’d ever received.

“You’re definitely your father’s daughter.” He covered my hand and removed it, but didn’t let my fingers go. “I appreciate what you’re doing. But this is—” His eyes lifted up and to the right, and I thought I’d never seen him look so sad. Finally, his gaze returned to mine. “Did you know my brother died?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. But I was responsible.”

“Oh.” Yikes. I had no idea what to say to that.

“And my sister, you know Shelly? She has always struggled with . . .” His gaze turned faraway again and he heaved a giant sigh. “She and I spent a lot of our lives making selfish decisions and hurting others, including each other. We’ve done some terrible things to our parents, things there is no making up for. I’m not good at this.”

“What’s that?” I held his hand. Hopefully, I looked encouraging.

“Every time Des and I talk, I make things worse for him.” His head moved in a subtle nod, his features stark. “He needs consistency, he relies on habit, and a calm environment is what’s best, for managing his disorder.”

“So?”

“I aggravate him, and his condition. When he was little, I didn’t understand. And when he got older, when he was a teenager, I didn’t want to believe his diagnosis. I struggled with it. Honestly, at the time, I would’ve preferred if he’d been faking and lying than be like his Aunt Jem. She also has bipolar and she’s . . .” His eyes seemed to grow fierce, maybe with an unpleasant memory. “She’s a real handful.”

“Didn’t she try to set you on fire once?”

His gaze narrowed on me. “How’d you know about that?”

“I hear things.” I shrugged. “And she put a cigarette out on your chest? And tried to kidnap Aunt Janie? And⁠—”

“Yes. Well. She makes bad choices and isn’t very nice.”

“You thought if Des had bipolar, it would mean he’d be like his Aunt Jem?”

“At the time, yeah. I couldn’t accept it. I hated it. His diagnosis felt like someone had taken our son away from us. One day he was there. The next he was gone.” Uncle Quinn’s eyes had grown glassy and they lowered to some spot on the floor. “I’ve read a lot of books since. I know better now. Desmond isn’t anything like his aunt. And I made his life so much harder.” His small smile—so much like Des’s—looked absolutely miserable. “Thank God for his mom. Janie is incredible.”

“Sorry if I’m overstepping—actually, I’m not sorry. I know I’m overstepping, but I think maybe I can cross this line once. Why don’t you tell Des this? That you’ve read books and you know he’s not his aunt, that you’re sorry and realize you messed up.”

“I don’t deserve the chance to apologize, Ava.” He looked contrite. And resigned. “Honestly, I think—I think if I apologized now, it would be me—I’d be making it about myself. I want to apologize, it would make me feel better. But what about him?” Uncle Quinn’s words were halting and uncertain, and I didn’t think I’d ever heard him say so much all at once. “Wouldn’t it be a burden to him? When he needed me, I failed him. What would an apology do now? It’s too late. I failed him as a father. And he’s stable now, thanks to his own hard work and despite how shitty of a dad I was. I don’t want to make things harder for him—and, you know, he’s still . . .” He sighed again, like he was hugely frustrated with himself and his lack of ability to speak the right words.

I placed a hand on his back and rubbed, compelled to comfort the big guy.

Eventually, he asked, “How much do you know about what Des did before he left Chicago?”

“What do you mean?” I cocked my head to the side. “What did he do?”

Uncle Quinn studied me, seemed to debate his words before saying, “Let’s say, the stakes are high. Really high. When I say I don’t want to aggravate his condition—because I know I do aggravate it—I also know it’s not aggravation he can afford. He needs solid habits, control, and to avoid stressful situations and people. I’m—I know I’m stressful for him.”

“That sounds cryptic.”

He shook his head, looking frustrated. “Never mind about that. Do you know about what Des does for a living? How much do you know about that?”

“A lot. But not everything.”

He nodded again, accepting my answer, and his words were steadier as he said, “Being around me is really difficult for Desmond. I would apologize for how I failed him when he was young, if I thought it would help him and not harm him, if I thought he wanted to hear it. But doing so wouldn’t change that I still have a tough time accepting what he does now. I can’t think about it without becoming really angry.”

“Why? Why do you have a hard time accepting Des’s job?”

“Because my son, who is named after my brother, has a job that’s similar in many ways to the job I had once, and that job got my brother killed.”

Double yikes. I hugged him and he exhaled a laugh, hugging me back.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice rough. “But I don’t deserve⁠—”

“You think entirely too much about not deserving things, Uncle Quinn,” I cut him off, giving him one more squeeze before stepping back and forcing him to meet my gaze. “And you’re right.”

“About what?”

I was pleased to see he looked bracing, like he wasn’t sure what I would say, but he was fairly certain it would be unexpected and probably amusing.

“It is complicated.”

He nodded.

I wasn’t finished. “But so is the US tax code.”

He stopped nodding. “Pardon?”

“Just because it’s complicated, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t itemize your deductions when the return is greater than a standard deduction. You know?”

“I mean, I”—he huffed—“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“It takes a long time to itemize your deductions. You have to go through every category, collect receipts, et cetera. And after all that effort, it might turn out that the standard deduction makes the most sense. The allure of the standard deduction is strong, it takes no time at all, you check a box and move on. You just—you know—write it off. Let it go. Walk away. Meanwhile, there’s still a chance you’re leaving something essential on the table.”

“What’s that?”

“Money, Uncle Quinn. You’re leaving money.”

He squinted. “Riiiight.”

“Glad we did this.” I patted him on the shoulder and took a step back. “If you need me to help you itemize anything—anything at all—or replace receipts or negotiate on your behalf, you know where to replace me.”

For the first time since we’d been talking, a real smile tugged at his mouth. “I do know where to replace you, Ava. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I winked at him, and said, “Good talk,” then turned for the living room where my mom and her friends were gathered, and wondered how I might be able to help Des and his dad get on the same page.

If I could help before Des left Chicago, I would. They were both awesome, and despite what Uncle Quinn had said, they deserved each other.