I tried to think of the right answer. I was totally at sea here. "I, uh, I think she's trying to give you space."
Another grunt, this one amused. "She's hugging me like every five seconds."
"She was really scared," I said quietly. "And I think she's worried about you. She knows how much you love your dad and she's afraid he's going to get into more trouble and you're going to get hurt."
"She never says anything bad about him," Thatcher said, his eyes still fixed on his shoes. "Sometimes her mouth gets weird when he makes her mad, but she never says anything mean about him."
"Does he say stuff like that about her?" Maybe I shouldn't pry, but I was dying to get inside Thatcher's head, to figure out what he was thinking.
"Nah. He makes jokes about her being a hard-ass and not letting us have junk food and stuff, but he never… I think he sometimes wishes they were back together."
"Only sometimes?"
A flash of that grin that reminded me of Scarlett. "Yeah. He's right, she doesn't put up with a lot of crap." He raised an eyebrow at me, a pure teenage smirk on his face. "Dad wouldn't make it five minutes in our house. He'd leave his shoes on the floor or forget to throw his laundry in the hamper and she'd kick his butt." The smirk melted away. "She wouldn't take him back anyway."
"Do you wish she would?" I asked quietly, not sure he'd answer.
After an endless minute he spent rubbing the heel of his sneaker on the carpet, he said, "No. My dad is fun when he's around, but my mom works really hard. August and I try to do our stuff, like take out the trash and help with the dishes, but she's tired a lot. My dad wouldn't make her happy."
There was nothing I could say to that. I was glad he didn't have fantasies of his parents getting back together. One hurdle we didn't have to worry about. Thatcher slanted me an incisive look, and I had the distinct feeling he was mentally dissecting me.
"She needs someone who can make her happy."
"I agree," I said carefully.
His arms crossed over his chest again and he was back in full interrogation mode. "So, what makes you think that could be you? She only met you, what, like a week ago?"
"Ten days," I corrected before I could think better of it.
His grunt was more of a scoff. "Like that's any better."
Thatcher wasn't wrong. It was crazy. We'd just met. We should have been in second-date territory, not exchanging vows of love and talking about moving in together. If anyone else said they were in love after barely more than a week, I'd be all over them with warnings to slow it down, to give it time.
And the kid was right to worry about his mom. He loved her. I wondered if he felt like he'd left his dad in the middle of a dangerous mess only to find his mom in the same. Different kind of danger, but still…
With nothing else to work with, I stuck with honesty. "I know it's fast. Your mom knows it's fast. We also know we love each other. Sometimes, it happens like that. And your mom is an amazing woman. She's smart and funny, and I don't just love her, I love being with her. I don't want you guys to leave. I want you to stay and we can see how this goes. But it's up to you and August and your mom. If you decide not to stay…" I shrugged a shoulder. "We'll work it out."
"What does that mean?" Thatcher demanded, eyebrows pulled together, making a worry line identical to his mother's.
I shrugged again. "I don't know. I guess we'll see when we get there. I know I love your mom and she loves me. I know I like you and your brother and I want you guys in my life. I also know this is a complicated situation, and it's happening fast, and there's a lot to consider. It's also hard for me to travel because of the will and my job."
"Your dad was a real jerk," Thatcher said.
"Believe me, I'm aware. If you guys go back home, it's more complicated, but it doesn't change how I feel about your mom or you and your brother. I can't give you a concrete answer. All I can say is that we'll work together to figure it out."
Thatcher nodded, not meeting my eyes. I couldn't get a read on him. We sat there in silence for a while. "You going to order that stuff?" he asked, lifting his chin in the direction of my tablet.
"Do you think I should?"
"Yeah, she'll like the torch. And—" His phone beeped with a text. Pulling it up, his eyes went dark. He read the text, then read it again, his eyes scanning the words until he must have had them memorized. Silent, he turned the phone to me.