Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Brianna’s voice echoes from the past. “We have to buy that house, Alex… it looks just like a fairy-tale cottage where all happily ever afters happen… I can’t live anywhere else… I’m so in love with it…”
“I read about you,” Mrs. Rose blurts out, chasing Bri’s voice out of my head. “About your childhood and your loss. I’m very sorry.”
My jaw tightens. “You think because I was abandoned as a kid and lost my wife and baby, that makes me want to hang out with your kid?”
She quickly shakes her head. “No, of course not. I talked to some of the neighbors. Everyone says you’re a nice guy. They told me you give art presentations at the school and how much the kids love you. Penny loves art—she talks about your sculptures all the time. I thought maybe you could spend a few hours with her, let her watch you work. She’s very helpful. It would mean so much to her.”
“And give you time to hang out in Boston.”
“I won’t be hanging out. I have a doctor’s appointment. Believe me, if I had anyone else to ask, I would. I don’t trust leaving her with a total stranger. Penny will just wait until the babysitter’s not looking and run to your house and then I’ll have someone calling me in a panic that they lost my child.” Her eyes flicker with desperation. “I’m sure she won’t be much trouble. She talks a lot sometimes, but she’s very well-behaved.”
I stare past Mrs. Rose to Penny’s face at the window. When she waves at me, all I can do is chuckle and shake my head.
“Fine. But just this one time. I’m not a fucking day care center.”
“Thank you. I really do appreciate it. I’ll pay you, of course.”
“I don’t want your money. Just bring her with something to eat and drink. I don’t have kid-friendly food.”
“Noted. Is it okay if I drop her off around nine?”
“In the morning?”
She laughs. “I take it you’re not a morning person?”
“I work better at night.”
“I’ve read that about creative people. I’ll probably pick her up around three.”
Shit. I just stuck myself with a nine-year-old for six hours.
“I really do appreciate this,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for her.”
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t know you. But since you went nosing around in my past, I got no problem telling you I think you treat Penny like an outdoor cat that goes exploring — thinking they’re just going to come back every night and won’t get lost, run over, or eaten by something.”
Her lips tighten and she nods slowly. “You’re right. But we really are doing our best. It’s hard to understand a situation unless you’re actually in it.”
I walk away, unaware that I was already deep in the situation.
Chapter 8
ALEX
Me and Penny have an awkward stare-off on the front porch after her mother drops her off. I think we silently agree we like her random visits more.
Finally, she shrugs her backpack off her shoulder and hands it to me.
“There’re juice boxes inside,” she says. “I brought one for you, too.”
I yawn. Three hours of sleep is making every molecule in my body scream at me for agreeing to do this today. All I want to do is crawl back in bed.
“Thanks, but I’ll be having a Bloody Mary.” I hold the door open for her and we go inside.
Her eyes dilate. “You’re drinking blood?”
“That’s just the name. It’s a vegetable drink. For adults.” According to Kelley’s ongoing rules, I can have one Bloody Mary per week, which I’ve begrudgingly adhered to.
She crinkles her nose, and this time, the likeness to Bri actually makes me smile instead of shredding my heart to pieces.
“Juice boxes don’t require refrigeration, but they taste better really cold.” Her serious tone tells me cold juice boxes are nothing to be fucked with.
“Okay, then. Let’s put them in the fridge.”
In the kitchen, I put her backpack on the table. She pulls out five juice boxes, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a clear plastic box, four small ziplock bags filled with pretzel sticks, grapes, graham crackers, and cereal. There’s also a tiny container of milk, a plastic spoon, and a disposable bowl. Each has a small white label on it with its contents and intent written in marker. Pretzel - afternoon snack. I wonder if Mrs. Rose has an organizational stick up her ass or if she thinks I’m too stupid to know what a pretzel is.
“I’ll share with you if you don’t have any of your own snacks,” Penny offers as she lines her juices up on the empty bottom shelf of my refrigerator.
It’s probably the nicest thing someone has said to me in a long time.
“Thanks, little darlin’. That’s sweet.”