“I’ll bring her over in twenty minutes.” Cassidy turns toward her house, but looks back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Brynn. Seriously.” She is genuine and sweet, and has no clue the turmoil I’m in.
I grunt a response and watch her hurry to her house. She dashes up the three stairs to the porch and rushes inside, the screen door smacking shut behind her.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss, stomping to my front door. I pull keys from my purse and unlock it. Connor follows me inside, closing the door behind him.
“What’s your problem? I mean, I know we had other plans, but Cassidy needed help. I probably should’ve asked first, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Brooklyn is a sweet kid.”
“You definitely should’ve asked first,” I yell. The butterflies have transformed into crazed ants, running headfirst into one another as they spin out of control. “You don’t know me, Connor. You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me more about you, Brynn. Because you’re right, I know next to nothing.”
My desire to tell him everything is strong, even when I know it’s not smart. I want to be known. To be understood. Even so, I know better. It’s better to keep people at arm’s distance for now. My personal baggage is a special type of fucked-up shit. It comes with media, mass hatred, and an irate person who might still want to punish me.
Connor throws up his hands at my silence. “Continue to tell me nothing. I’ll continue to not know you. I’ll pretend like your responses to situations are normal, like you’re not harboring something heavy, and you keep being an ice queen.” He walks back to the front door and turns the handle.
“Wait,” I shout. “Where are you going?”
“Home, Brynn. I think we need to cool off.”
“Uh, no. You’re not going home.” I point through the walls, to Cassidy’s house. “I cannot watch that child by myself.”
“Have you seriously never babysat a kid? It’s not hard.”
I picture Brooklyn’s face. In my head, I hear her little voice yelling and talking, the way she does every day in her backyard. Maybe it’s not hard to take care of a kid, but there is no way in hell I’m doing it alone. My hands begin to shake. I curl them into fists to hide them from Connor.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice pleading. “Don’t go. I need you.”
The fight leaves me. My shoulders slump as the panic retreats to hidden spots within me.
Connor crosses the room, arms folding me into his strong, solid chest. “Brynn,” he whispers against my hair. “What the hell happened to you?” His question isn’t a request for information but a statement of wonder. He knows I won’t answer. “I won’t go, okay? I’m here. As long as you need me.”
I cry into his chest, and I have no way to explain why. I’m living on borrowed time. At some point, I’ll have to be honest with him, and with myself.
* * *
“See?”Connor inclines his head my way. “It’s not hard.”
We’re sitting on the couch. Below us, Brooklyn sits cross-legged on the ground. Her backpack lies on the coffee table and she’s digging through it. Cassidy sent her with plenty to keep her occupied. She has coloring books and crayons, picture books and Play-Doh. Apparently none of that interests her. She sets it all off to the side and reaches in again. This time she pulls out a plastic square with teeth on all four sides, like a comb. She reaches into the bag once more and out comes a plastic baggy filled with colorful bands.
“A loom!” I sit up, looking closer.
Brooklyn looks back at me. “Yes, but it’s too hard for me. I get it wrong.”
I reach forward, grabbing a band from the bag and holding it up. I stretch it out a couple times. “I had these. I loved playing with it.”
Connor nudges my legs and nods at Brooklyn.
Right. That’s what a normal person would do.
“Brooklyn, do you mind if I help you?”
She doesn’t respond, but she scoots aside. I lower myself from the couch to the floor below and stick my legs out under the coffee table, trying not to let her proximity send me over the edge into hysteria. I loop the band I’m holding around one peg on each end and reach for another. “I had a trick for making this work. Like this…”
Soon we’re working together. Brooklyn gets it wrong a handful of times, weaving the wrong section or forgetting some entirely, but she’s happy and pleased with the outcome.
After that’s over, we have a snack and go outside to water Ginger’s flowers. Connor is good with her. They seem like they know each other, and when I ask about that, he tells me he knew Cassidy back when she first got pregnant. When Brooklyn is across the yard, he tells me what happened with the dad. I feel bad. Here is Cassidy, this single mom trying to be nice to her new neighbor, and I shut her out.
Cassidy arrives mid-afternoon with food in take-out boxes. “It’s the Sunday Special,” she says, setting it on my kitchen counter. “I hope you like turkey breast and mashed potatoes. Kind of like Thanksgiving in June.”
