Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
There’s a brief flash of relief on her face, and then she grimaces. “I’m not exactly her favorite person right now.”
“Maybe you’re being too sensitive.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Irritation slashes her expression. “When am I too sensitive?”
“Um…now?”
“Whatever, Josiah.” She picks up her yoga mat and slings it back over her shoulder. “No wonder she thinks I overreact. So do you.”
She opens the front door and leans in to yell, “Kids, your dad is here.”
With no makeup, she looks young and fresh, her hair gathered to the crown of her head in a coily ponytail. She’s as beautiful as the day we first met. She’s changing, aging, but to me, only getting better. Like God looked at the feline flare of her cheekbones and the tempting pout of her mouth, the sultry dark eyes flecked with gold and said, You think she looks good now? I’m just getting started. I thought I’d see those changes up close, see her grow more beautiful with age, but fate had other plans.
Correction. Yasmen had other plans, and I’m still adjusting—obviously not always well—to how things have changed.
“Yas, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know what you meant.” Her eyes snap to mine. “I always know what you mean. That I’m overreacting. That I’m being too sensitive. That I’m a hot mess.”
“I never called you a hot mess, even when you were one.”
Our eyes lock, and the hurt in hers spears me right through. I’m an asshole. I’m bad at this. At being with her, but not being with her. It makes me come across as terse and impersonal, when I’m really just trying to navigate this new dynamic between us. How do people do this? When the rug is pulled out from under the life they thought they would have forever, how do they pretend it’s not seismic? That the roof hasn’t fallen in and they’re trapped under a concrete beam? How do you breathe when the person you thought you’d cherish forever looks at you the way Yasmen looks at me right now because you’ve hurt them so much?
“I’ll let you talk to your daughter about all of this,” she says, the mouth that used to drive me crazy pulled tight. “Kassim needs to be at the soccer field by two. I’ll meet you there.”
She rushes off the front porch and down the sidewalk toward the park before I can make this any better, not that I would know how even if she stayed. I stare after her for a few seconds, well aware of how badly I mishandled that conversation. I run a hand over my face, tired even though the day just started. Otis stares at me, canine censure in his unblinking eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that. Whose side are you on?”
He carefully lifts his head from my lap and turns away, a clear answer to my question.
The door flies open and Kassim speeds out carrying a Frisbee, a duffel bag, and a Pop-Tart.
“Morning, son.”
“Hey, Dad,” he says around a mouthful of his breakfast.
He keeps right on past me to the Rover, climbs in the back seat, and closes the door, earbuds stuck in his ears within seconds. Odds are he’s listening to one of his robotics podcasts. Deja emerges from the house at a much more leisurely pace. Dressed in cutoffs, a TLC T-shirt, and pink high-top Converse. Two braids hang on her shoulders, and she’s so pretty. My baby girl is growing up, dammit. Soon it’ll be boys and all kinds of shit that could give me heart failure. I want to relish the day while she still enjoys hanging with her old man on a Saturday morning because I assume this won’t last much longer.
“Dad, why are you staring at me?” Her grin crooks in the exact way Yasmen’s does when she’s in a good mood.
“You look more like your mom every day,” I tell her with a slow smile.
She scowls, rolling her eyes and marching down the steps. “Hopefully I’ll grow out of it.”
Was Yasmen being sensitive? Because that was…harsh.
Otis races down the steps and past Deja, who takes off with him as soon as she realizes what he’s doing. I’m not sure how it started, but they play this game where Otis tries to sit in the front seat only when Deja rides with me. Otherwise, he’s content to have me chauffer him in the back.
“No way, Otis,” Deja squeals, her face transforming from sullen teen to exuberant kid. “I call shotgun.”
When they reach the car, Deja opens the back passenger-side door and points. “You sit back there with Kassim. You get Daddy to yourself all the time.”
My irritation disappears. Maybe I’m the one overreacting now and her comment wasn’t as bad as I made it in my head. I do acknowledge that I’m at least halfway wrapped around my daughter’s finger, but she and Yasmen will be fine.