Lucky appears at my side. “I’m on it. You should go hose yourself off. Bash, wanna hear your heartbeat?”
I wave a floppy hand at Jonas. “You…just take care of you. Thank you.”
Notthank you.
He’s not going anywhere.
And I don’t know how I feel about that.
21
Jonas
Dusk is approachingas I walk around Emma’s house to meet her at the chicken coop a few hours after her family cookout. I wasn’t sure she’d let me come over, but she agreed to see me once Bash was in bed.
I spot her before she sees me. She’s bent over, petting the tall, skinny, white chicken with the funny, light feathers and a chicken diaper on her butt. I can’t tell if the bird’s eyes are under the head feathers or mixed in with them, but it can clearly see, and it wants inside the pen.
“Silly girl,” Emma says. “You just ate inside.”
Eight or ten thick brown and red chickens with normal feathers, normal heads, and no diapers peck the ground inside the coop area. I think I spot watermelon rind. Definitely chicken feed pellets.
Emma’s dress is gone, replaced with baggy black sweatpants that hang low on her hips when she stands. Her pink crop top cuts off just above her belly button, and her small breasts sway freely underneath.
“Do the chickens get treats every night?” I ask.
“Every single night,” she confirms.
She straightens and looks at me, and every nerve that’s been bouncing off the walls since I took the hint that the cookout was over settles.
“How’s the little guy feeling?” I ask.
“Feverish but bullheaded,” she replies. There’s still caution in her voice, but it’s noticeably less than it was a few days ago. “He threw up three more times after we got home, but he’s pretty well-trained with a bucket.”
“Did I cook the burgers wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Stomach bug is going around daycare.”
I had no idea something as tiny as a kid who barely stands above my knee could terrify me in so many ways.
It’s a massive relief to know I didn’t accidentally give him food poisoning.
I tilt my head toward the porch swing.
She nods.
We sit. I fold my hands in my lap despite wanting to drape one over the back of the swing.
She folds her hands in her lap too and pushes with one foot, making the swing sway the tiniest amount.
“Lot more comfortable to sit on than sleep on,” I comment.
“I’d assume so.”
“Slept on worse though.”
“I’d question that, but in the number of nights I’ve known you, you’ve spent a high percentage of them not in a bed.”
I smile.
