Hannah nodded, and he could only stare as she deftly switched the shoes to the right feet. “Damn. I can’t get that right.”
“It can be hard to tell,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yeah.” He stared at her dainty female fingers tying the little strings. All Hannah’s things were so damn small. He’d never felt so uncoordinated. “I do okay with the buckle shoes. I mean, I finally got it that the buckles go on the outside, but the lace-up ones…”
“Do you have a pen? I only have pencils.”
“Yeah.” He pulled a blue ink pen from his backpack.
Mia took it then wrote a large R on the bottom of one shoe and an L on the bottom of the other. “There you go.” She handed the pen back.
“Thanks. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
She looked at him then, her eyes soft and kind. “I guess you have a lot of other things to think about.”
Her gaze held his with so much understanding of all the things he had to think about even if she didn’t know what they were. “Yeah. I do.” Hannah. School. His brothers. The twins, who needed him. Luke, who hated him.
Uncertain what to do with his hands, he dug into his backpack for Hannah’s lunch. “I have juice boxes.”
“Really?” Her tone was teasing, but she didn’t look up, still straightening the lacy fold of Hannah’s sock.
Idiot. He’d gone from “My fraternity’s having a party” to “Do you want a juice box?” But then Mia turned that brilliant, understanding smile on him, and just like a lightning rod in a storm, he was struck.
“I love juice boxes.” She took one, poked in the straw, and handed it to Hannah, who drank like she’d been lost in the Sahara. “I think it’s awesome that you bring your daughter to class, though I’m surprised the university allows that.”
“I hadn’t planned to bring her. She didn’t give me much choice, did you, Han?”
“I bite.”
“Oh. Well,” Mia said, fighting a smile.
“And I skeamed.”
“It’s kind of a new thing. She’s…my sister,” he added after a moment because, though he couldn’t say why, he cared what Mia thought. He hadn’t gotten a girl pregnant. He wasn’t a father who couldn’t tell the difference between left and right shoes. “My parents…our parents…” He looked at his backpack, zipped up one pocket, unzipped another, because his grief was still fresh. It was still hard to say. “They were killed this past summer. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded, acknowledging her words, but he couldn’t make himself say it was okay. It was so not okay. It helped that she didn’t seem to be waiting for it. “We’re still working out the kinks. Hannah’s not big on staying with strangers. She’s not really big on me leaving her at all.”
“I can’t blame her,” Mia stated, not flirting, just being honest.
“No, neither can I. It was a shock, to all of us, but it’s hard for her to understand.” And every night when she asked for Mama, it broke his heart. He rocked and sang every song he could think of, but still she asked. Not crying. Just a question. Where Mama?
“Snack,” Hannah said.
He dug in his backpack, and Hannah sat patiently, waiting for whatever he put in front of her. She was such a good kid—a really, really good little kid—which made him feel worse for being so tragically inadequate.
Mia turned to face him, Hannah still in her lap. “You’re doing a good job.”
His hands stilled. “How do you know?” And how did she know he needed to hear that?
“I just do.” Her dark, intelligent eyes stared into his with unwavering certainty.
He wanted it to be true so badly. His eyes stayed locked with hers for a long moment, just breathing, letting her words sink in, letting himself sink farther into this girl who made his heart beat faster.
“Nicky, snack.” Hannah broke the spell.
“So what do you have in there?” Mia asked.
“Let’s see. I have Vanilla Wafers with peanut butter.”
“Always makes a hearty meal.”
“Two cheese sticks, a cut-up apple, and… a slightly mushed Snickers.”
“A feast.”
He held out the candy bar, but she shook her head. “I’m not taking your Snickers.”
“Sure you are.”
“No, I’m not. If I want something, I can go to the dining hall.”
He wasn’t going to sit here and eat in front of her, and he really didn’t want her to leave. “We can share it.”