They’re crazy. They’re also called Henchmen and they kill things—” he broke off, looked at Trey. “Not real things. It’s just a game. I promise.”

Trey wasn’t sure he liked being compared to a bad guy, and was pretty certain the comparison wasn’t lost on McKenna, either.

* * **

McKenna didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. Only TJ would think it was cool that his dad was a bad guy.

A henchman.

Only TJ would love an Enderman over Steve, the Mine Craft protagonist.

Only TJ would enjoy the drama and be excited about a road trip with his man-in-black, bad guy father.

But she wasn’t TJ. She wasn’t a wild, reckless Sheenan. She was a Douglas. She tried hard to be good, and thoughtful. Kind.

And yet, being kind today ruined everything.

At the church, she’d wanted to be kind and protect Trey’s feelings. She’d tried to save him from being embarrassed in front of his son. What a tactical error that had been, because in trying to protect Trey’s feelings, she’d lost control of the situation, giving Trey the upper hand.

And he hadn’t worried about her feelings. He hadn’t worried about doing the good thing, the kind thing. No, he’d swooped in, and taken advantage of the upper hand. He’d exploited her weakness.

But then, when had Trey had ever tried to be kind?

She bit down into her lower lip, trying to hold in all the angry words, not wanting to escalate things further, not wanting to get hysterical when TJ was caught in the middle.

TJ.

She glanced down at him and he was smiling, blissfully oblivious to the angry currents, or maybe being a Sheenan, he just didn’t mind them. Maybe being a Sheenan, he enjoyed the tension and fighting.

It boggled her mind that her son, the child she’d raised single handedly for the past four years, was his father in miniature.

How was that right?

How was that fair?

But then of course, life wasn’t fair. She’d learned that in 8th grade when she’d kissed her family goodbye and hopped into seventeen year old Rory’s truck so he could drive her to Jessica’s for a sleep over.

Her parents and three youngest siblings were slain within a half hour of her leaving. Fifteen year old Quinn—the only one at the house who survived—had been bludgeoned like the others, and left to die.

Quinn wasn’t supposed to survive. It was a miracle he had. But that night changed everything. That night taught her that life was short, and fate was capricious, and there was only now. There was only the present. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t live in the future. Instead there was today, and today was too important to waste with anger, hatred, or regret.

Far better to live fully. Far better to love completely. Far better to forgive and forget and count one’s blessings.

This was the philosophy that had allowed her to love Trey all these years.

Forgiving, forgetting. Counting one’s blessings.

But after fifteen years of forgiving and forgetting she was tapped out. Her patience and her emotional reserves were gone. She had nothing left to give Trey.