“What about the other twenty-five percent of the time?”
“I’m sleeping, usually.”
“That sounds pretty intense. And it also sounds like a recipe for disaster with a nine-year-old running amok while you’re trying to go about your normal routine.”
He shakes his head. “It’ll be fine. I promise, if I can withstand my teammates pressuring me to go out in Vegas during atournament weekend, I can deal with whatever you and April throw my way.”
Maybe he has a point. I’m still afraid that he doesn’t quite understand what he’s getting himself into, but it will only take a few days to determine which one of us was right or wrong.
“Let’s go see more of the house!” April pops up behind me and nearly makes me jump a foot in the air. “Sorry, Mom. But isn’t this cool? I can’t believe we get to live here!”
“We get to stay here,” I say, emphasizing the subtle difference. “For a little while.”
But she’s already talked Grant into heading back downstairs, and my gentle correction falls on deaf ears. At least it’s a good reminder for myself.
This is only temporary. The best case scenario is that we all manage to coexist for a few weeks without getting on each other’s nerves. If we can somehow pull that off, I’ll consider it a win.
We stop in the kitchen downstairs, where April runs from one marble countertop to the other so she can run her hand across the smooth surfaces.
“Wow, Mom, come and look at this fridge. The door is see-through! And everything in here is all lined up just like it is at the grocery store.”
Now it’s Grant’s turn to look a little embarrassed as she marvels at the neat, precisely spaced rows of identical meals, canned juices, and supplements with names I can’t pronounce, let alone recognize.
“Yeah, I have a chef come and prepare all of my meals for the week. Everything is measured and balanced exactly the way it should be, and there’s plenty for all of us if you’d like to try some.”
She looks skeptical. “Does the chef know how to make good food, though? Like pancakes or eggs or macaroni and cheese?”
“April,” I begin, but don’t have the heart to contradict her this time. I’m not wasting my breath trying to convince a nine-year-old that flax seed oil and prune juice and a boneless, skinless baked chicken breast are somehow tastier than macaroni and cheese.
“If she knows how to make pancakes and eggs, she’s been holding out on me,” Grant answers. “Probably for the best, though, because I’d never eat anything else.”
“I know that’s right,” she nods, already moving on to the next gadget that’s caught her eye. “What’s this?”
“I use it to make a smoothie every morning for breakfast.”
“And this thing?”
“It’s a cappuccino maker.”
April and I give him the same surprised look, and he takes a step back with his hands raised in a mock surrender. “Hey, a guy has to indulge every once in a while, right? I don’t use it very often, though. Mostly in the off-season.”
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, April inches back over toward the fridge. “Would it be okay if I had a bottle of apple juice? I’m thirsty.”
Grant shrugs. “Fine with me if it’s okay with your mom.”
I can’t think of a good reason to say no, other than my fear that it’ll somehow get spilled all over his pristine countertops.
“Sure, sweetheart. Just be careful, okay?”
She’s already reaching for the drink before I can fully get the warning out, and it seems like time slows down as she fumbles the small bottle. It wobbles precariously on the shelf for what feels like an eternity, then slips through her hand and crashes to the floor.
April looks so panicked that I immediately rush to comfort her before I address the spill. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I gather her into a tight hug and use my thumb to quickly catch the tears that are threatening to spill over. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”
She sniffles and looks over at Grant. “I didn’t mean to, Mr. Parker. I’m really, really sorry.”
His expression softens as he crouches down next to us. “Hey, it’s no problem. No need to apologize.” He gives her a mock-serious look. “And please, please don’t ever call me Mr. Parker again.” He shudders. “I’m not that old, you know.”
