My mother might have more sense than me. She warned me about Chase in the beginning, again in the middle, and even the end. Clearly, I didn’t listen. I shift the car into reverse, ignore the weird ticking sound that seems to be coming from the floorboards and slowly back out. Since she still hasn’t replied to my question, I rephrase it: “Did you do anything fun?”
“We went to band practice.” She positions Little B in the center of her lap and proceeds to straighten the tattered red ribbon around the bear’s neck. That bear was the first stuffed animal I gave her when she was only a few days old. I’ve offered to replaceit, and have certainly bought her many other stuffed animals over the years, but nothing takes the place of Little B.
“Band practice?” I flick my blinker on and turn left. Chase has dabbled with all sorts of musical instruments as he has a talent to play by ear. Music was the one thing that brought us together, and we always had that in common. He really is a talented musician. I’ll give him that much, but he has a terrible time sticking to anything. Every band he’s ever been a part of has kicked him out after he missed too many practices. “Which band?”
Her shoulders rise and fall, and her focus never leaves Little B. “It was in some dude’s basement.”
Nice.
I bite back my sarcasm. More than likely the band was not appropriate for a seven-year-old to hear. We’ve reached Main Street, and I pull to the side of the road right in front of the laundromat. “Alright, dear.” I sigh as I unclick my seatbelt and reach for my purse. “This was not my plan, but you need clean clothes for school. Let’s get everything washed up. Since it’s already almost bedtime, we can order dinner while we are here.”
Her gaze shifts to the neon lights above the brick building spelling “Laundromat.” The neon M appears to be shorting out—blinking on for a few seconds before it darkens for an even longer pulse, then repeating the pattern. It’s the only way I’ve ever remembered the building to look. “I hate going here.” Her tone isn’t ungrateful. It’s akin to inflections you’d hear from someone who blew all their birthday candles but one. Not disappointment at all, but more of an observation.
I don’t tell her that we wouldn’t have to waste time here if her dad had done his own chores. Nope, I don’t say that at all. I aim a smile at her. “What kind of pizza would you like?”
An immediate sparkle returns to the center of her eyes, reflecting hues of blue so vibrant they look made up. “Extra cheese?”
“Anything you want.” I walk to the back of the car, retrieve the garbage bag, and step on the curb to wait for her to walk with me toward the blinking M.
We pass through the front door and are hit by a cacophony of machines running all along the walls. My senses are immediately overloaded by the small crowd of people. There seems to be a person sitting in front of every machine. It’s a small laundromat, but I’ve never had problems finding an open machine before. Who knew Sunday night at the laundromat would be so popular?
I grab Bella’s hand, and we shimmy sideways to fit through the narrow aisle between the benches of people and the machines. Most of the people are about college age, which now makes sense to me as to why they opted for Sunday night to do laundry. I know I’ve never seen any of these people here on Saturday mornings, when I usually do my laundry.
Scanning the back wall for an open machine, I’m about to lose hope when I see one machine in the far corner with the front door open. I rise to the tips of my toes to check inside, and my heart pumps with excitement.
It’s empty.
I tug on Bella’s hand, pulling her a little faster in hopes of getting to it before someone else. “We are in luck,” I exclaim as we close the gap between us and the machine. A forgotten cart is pushed up against it. I look all around to see who it belongs to, but there isn’t anyone here who appears to care about it.
Bella drops onto the narrow bench in front of the machine, and I plop my bag into the cart and sort through the laundry, removing the colored clothes first and adding them to the machine. Half the clothes in the bag do not even look as if they’dfit Bella anymore. The more I rummage, the more I realize that Chase added everything to this bag. There’s no way she wore all this stuff in the three days she had him.
He's like a child who always goes out of his way to annoy me.
It’s not going to work.
I take a deep breath and calmly add the rest of the clothes to the machine, swipe my card to pay, and stand back as the clothes start to tumble around. Everything looks good, so I turn back to Bella. “Alright, I bet you’re hungry. Let’s order food.” Her expression remains unchanged, and my heart pings, deflating a little. This wasn’t the fun mother-daughter night I had planned for us. Bella’s slumped shoulders tell the truth that she’s feeling the same way. Forcing a cheery voice, I raise my eyebrows and tack on, “Maybe we can watch a movie on my phone?”
Her posture perks up a little, but her eyes are glazed over the way they get when she’s tired. I’m sure she didn’t get the rest she needed since Chase doesn’t care about bedtimes. I hate this so much, but I refuse to let it ruin our night. I retrieve my phone from my purse, tap on the pizza app, cruise through my clicks to order a pizza, and then hand my phone to her. “Go ahead and pick out a movie. The pizza should be here in twenty minutes.”
Her fingers brush against mine as I slide my phone to her. Finally the tips of her lips bend up in a genuine smile—a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. Since I’m not in a winning-at-life era, I always count the small wins.
That is one for the day.
“Wait a second . . .” A baritone voice calls as measured footsteps stop right behind me. “Who took my machine?” I toss a lazy look over my shoulder and do a double take as I observe ahot guy.
He’s got an athletic build, muscular ripples in all the right places, and he’s standing next to a small boy who looks to beabout Bella’s age. The boy is adorable as any kid that age is, but the dude is so freakishly handsome it causes me to freeze.
With his chiseled jawline and full lips, he could seriously be a model.
His eyes are a rare shade of blue-green, and his hair is medium brown with light blond tips as if he spends days at the beach. He and the boy are dressed in dark blue sweatpants and jackets like they are part of some sports team. When I narrow my gaze, I see a Granite Ice logo on the guy’s coat.
The ripples make sense now.
After a beat of silence, where I pretend to not be looking at how wide his shoulders are, he repeats his question, “Who took my machine?”
My lips pinch tight, puckering in the middle. It’s beyond rude to take someone’s machine. Everyone is busy. I can’t stand people who try to cheat to get ahead, but it’s not my business to interfere. I turn my gaze down, pinning it onto my phone to help Bella scroll for a movie to watch.
His feet shuffle forward, stopping only when his hand lands onmy machine,and his gaze slams onto me. “Did you take my machine?”
