Maybe I misunderstood.
“You’re right. You don’t have to let me take care of you. But I have a little bit of land. I have a small home for you. I have an opportunity for you to start over—yes, even at your age, don’t get lippy with me, Ms.Forever Twenty-Nine—and if you’re going to refuse it because it was Uncle Tony’s, and you didn’t like it when he quit talking to you over the exact same activities that landed you exactly where you are now, then that’s on you.”
I try again.
Maisey Spencer Dean’s Fixer Upper Mother Mom Jail Prison.
“Stop it. This isnotcharity. And there’s nothing weird about Uncle Tony’s—erm—house.”
I stifle a grin and barely stop myself from chuckling in amusement.
Pretty sure there’s still weird stuff somewhere in Tony’s house. I never looked in his attic, and to the best of my knowledge, the company she hired for the estate sale didn’t either. Wonder if Maisey has.
Also?
Still nothing popping up on my search on my phone about Maisey’s mom.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Look, you don’t have to come. You don’t. But Junie would love to have you here. I’d love to have you close enough to keep an eye on you. If this wasn’t Uncle Tony’s place, you’d love it. And don’t tell me there’s not some small part of you that would take joy in living basically at his expense when you’re still mad at him for not participating in your scheme.”
Happy feelings gone.
Doesn’t even matter that I can hear the disgust in her voice, like she’s making herself say it to manipulate her mom and doesn’t like it either.
“Mom? Mom, are you—dammit.” Maisey sighs.
I shove away from the building, intending to circle around to the front before she catches me, but a sharp inhalation stops me.
She’s come around the corner holding her cell phone up like she’s looking for a better signal. And I’m busted.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asks.
“How much of what?”
Her nose wrinkles as she gives me the wariest of wary glances while her pale cheeks go pink, and this is why I need to avoid Maisey Spencer.
I canfeelher insecurities. Her vulnerabilities. There’s something about her body language that saysToday has been hard, and I absolutely cannot take any more.
I’ve been faking my way through book club and PTA events and soccer games and life.
I’m alone and worn down and tired of putting on this brave face for the world.
If you’re going to be one more hurdle to me making a new life for Junie and me, I will destroy you, but I need a nap first.
And all the while, my brain is feeding me stories I donotneed to hear.
She’s thinking about you too. She’s avoiding you too. She wants to jump your bones but can’t contemplate it until her kid graduates from high school, which will give both of us time to get our shit together. Call a therapist, and you might have a chance then.
It’s wrong.
She’s probably thinking that I know a secret worse than that her uncle had a foot-fetish and adult-entertainment collection, which isn’t a bad secret.
Not compared to her mother being in prison.
Her mother’s in fucking prison.
“You have friends back in Iowa?” The question pops out before I can think better of it.
Her mouth sets in a grim line. “Lovely seeing you, Flint. Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have better places to be.”
