I watch her for a moment, wanting very much to talk her out of feeling guilty for trying to give her daughter a better life. Deciding that it’s not my place, I say, “Well, why don’t I play with Isabelle for a while?”
Brianna shakes her head. “That’s okay, really.”
There’s something about the way she says it that I find slightly offensive. “Surely I’m qualified to play some games with a four-year-old. After all, according to you, I am an overgrown man-child.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Brianna says. “It’smyproblem, not yours. And I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than play with Isabelle.”
“One would think, but Iliterallyhave nothing else to do while I wait for that machine over there to clean my clothes.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see a furry blue hand is doing the tapping. “Is you going to play with me?” Isabelle asks excitedly.
“Areyou going to play with me?Are you, not is you,” Brianna says while Isabelle grins up at me hopefully.
“Are he going to play with me, mum?”
Brianna fights a smile, looks at me, and murmurs, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” Giving Isabelle a big smile, I say, “Do I get to be Spider-Man?”
CHAPTER 17
Lies, Ice Cream Men, and Other Things That Should Be Banned
Brianna
This is weird. I’ve had nearly an entire hour of uninterrupted study time. I can’t remember this happening since Izzy was born. Apparently, overgrown men-children are not only qualified to amuse children, but they’re pretty damn good at it. The two of them are playing in the garden, and I can hear her giggling away through the open window. Is this weird? What if he’s some sort of weirdo? I should probably check on them. I walk over to the sink and peer out the window, my heart tugging. Well, as if that isn’t adorable? Isabelle is perched on her tricycle, peddling as quickly as her legs can take her, chasing Leo around the driveway in large circles. Somehow, she’s managed to talk him into wearing her red cape, and he’s doing a most convincing job of pretending to be terrified of Wonder Woman. A laugh escapes me as I watch. Although the logical side of me is insisting I get back to work, there’s another part of me riding a wave of grief for what my daughter has missed out on by not having a dad.
Did I just suggest mums can’t be fun? Blech. I shake my head, trying to clear the thought from my brain and reminding myself that Isabelle is fine. Annoyed at myself for allowing my mother’s antiquated opinions to seep into my psyche, I sit down and get back to studying. Within a few sentences, I’m lost in the world of civil disputes regarding property matters.
A couple of pages later, the back-door bursts open, and Isabelle comes running in. “Mum, Mum! The ice cream man is coming!” She hollers, hopping around like she has to go pee really badly.
Bugger. I hate that guy with his Pied Piper music blaring out of the speakers on his little van, enticing children everywhere to beg their parents mercilessly for delicious ice cream treats. Glancing at the clock, I quickly calculate the amount of time until supper. This ice creamwouldbuy me another hour before I’d have to cook. Oh, wow, I’m a bad mum today, aren’t I?
But seriously, will eating dessert before supperjust the one timereally harm her?
Leo appears beside her, his face damp with sweat from running around in the heat, and his expression full of excitement. “Did she say yes?” he asks Isabelle.
Sighing, I say, “I don’t know, Isabelle. It’s getting close to supper time. What if we save it for dessert?”
Her shoulders fall, and her bottom lip pulls away from her face. “I promise I will eat every bite of my vegetables.”
“Me, too,” Leo says with a firm nod.
Unable to help myself, I chuckle as I stand up and cross the room to get my purse.
“Yay! If my mum gets her purse, it means we can have ice cream!” She holds her hand up for a high five, which Leo gives her.
“Yes!” he says.
Pulling a twenty out of my wallet, I hand it to Isabelle. “Pick out one thing.One.And make it small. You don’t want to spoil your appetite. And can you grab me a fudgsicle please?”
Leo grins. “My treat. I’ll go get my wallet.”
“My treat. You’ve been a huge help today.”
“Oh, but it’s been terrific fun for me, too, and I’d love to treat you.”
Tipping my chin down, I give him an I’m-serious-so-stop-arguing face. It seems to work, because he says, “Thank you.”
