Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Mom asks hopefully, “Did you two have a good talk?”
“Not yet,” Marnie says. “We didn’t get the chance. Max got a call from his boss. Did you and my dad have a good talk?”
“We did,” Mom says, beaming a smile at Marnie. “He laughed.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” Marnie says. “And not surprised at all.” Marnie addresses me. “Listen, Max, I know we still need to talk, but I have to get Ripley off to school now, so I’m not late to my client’s house after that. Could we meet tonight after work and talk then?”
My heart is beating out of my chest. So hard I feel like my sternum is cracking. And yet, somehow, I manage to choke out the words, “Why don’t I come with you to drop Ripley off at school? We could talk on the way or maybe over coffee after dropping her off, if you have enough time before work by then.”
Marnie looks shocked. She looks at my mother, who nods, before returning to me. “Okay, yeah, that works.” She puffs out her cheeks. “I need to get showered and dressed real quick. Ripley, why don’t you get yourself a granola bar. We’ll do pancakes with smiley faces tomorrow, okay? We ran out of time today.”
“Dat’s okay, Mommy.” Ripley takes my hand. “Come on, Maxy-Milly. I’ll show you where we keep da nola bars.”
14
MARNIE
I pull my SUV out of the driveway with Max in my passenger seat and Ripley in her car seat in the back. Throughout my entire shower, and then while getting dressed, I’ve been trying to come up with the right wording to tell Max the reason his mother wanted to post that photo last night for only Alexander to see. But I’m still coming up short. At this point, I think maybe the only way to say it is to simply blurt it out. But I’m too big a coward to do that. Also, I can’t very well say a word about any of that with Ripley and her big old ears in the backseat. And so, not knowing what to say, I’ve been silent and tongue-tied since I walked into the living room after my shower, other than saying to Ripley, “Time to go.”
“Can you play Maxy-Milly’s song, Mommy?” Ripley says behind me.
I look at my daughter in my rearview mirror. “What song, baby?”
“‘Barbequood.’”
At any other time, I’d chuckle at her pronunciation of barracuda. But not now. Right now, I couldn’t laugh if my life depended on it. “You know what, love?” I say, locking eyes with Ripley in the rearview mirror. “How about I let you watch a show on your iPad during the drive, instead of playing music, just this once?”
Ripley gasps in shock. “I’m not allowed to watch da iPad on da way to school. Only when we go somewhere far away like Auntie Leeloo’s house.”
“That’s right, but I’m making an exception this once because I’d like to talk to Max and we might say a few things that aren’t appropriate for little ears.”
Ripley gasps again. Reverse psychology would dictate Ripley would want to overhear whatever “inappropriate” and mysterious things adults say to each other outside the presence of little ears. That’s certainly what I wanted as a kid—to hear all the bad words and inappropriate things. But that’s not how Ripley is wired. For reasons I’ll never understand, the universe gifted me with a daughter who practically shudders at the mere thought of being exposed to something “inappropriate.”
“Put on your headphones, love bug,” I say. “The iPad is in the seat pocket.”
“Max is still gonna come inside my school, doe, right?”
“I sure am,” Max says. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”
“Don’t promise that,” I murmur. “They let parents stay all day to help, if they want.”
“Oh. Yeah. No. I can’t stay all day. But I’ll definitely come in and see whatever you want to show me. How does that sound?”
Ripley cheers and claps while I frown and try to figure out what game Max is playing. Why is he suddenly being so nice to Ripley, when I know for a fact he wants nothing to do with her?
At a red light, I help Ripley get situated with the iPad and her headphones, and when she’s all dialed in and her eyes are fixated on her screen, I say to Max, “So, about your mother’s Facebook post.”
“We don’t need to waste time talking about that. I get it. You two got drunk and Mom got the brilliant idea to make my father feel like he’s a shit father who’s out of the loop in his son’s life. Which is true. There’s actually something else I need to talk to you about, Marnie. Something important.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively. “Actually, no. I really do need to explain that Facebook post to you.”