He smiles an impish smile that reminds me of his uncle Max, then fires Turtle across the room, knocking down one of the potted plants Marcy has lined along the windowsill. The terra cotta doesn’t break, but dirt fans out across the floor.
“Oliver! That wasn’t nice!” I brush loose soil back into the pot with my flattened palm, thinking,Brat, brat, brat. The plant appears jostled but unharmed, so I fit it back into its container and then, out in the foyer, I hear the front door slam.
Perfect. Max, home just in time to catch things falling apart. I’m wiping my hands on my jeans so evidence of my incompetence isn’t obvious as he comes sauntering into the room, wearing workout clothes, a backward baseball hat, and a scowl.
Just like that, I forget all about Oliver and what a babysitting hack I am.
“What’s going on?” he says.
I stare, transfixed by the shadows under his eyes and the scruffiness of his jaw and the bruising, faintly yellow, on the knuckles of his right hand. A wave of longing crashes into me, and I inhale a tremulous breath.
He has to repeat his question before I remember myself. “Oh, um, Oliver made a mess.”
“Youmade a mess,” Oliver says, pointing at me. I want to disagree, but I’m sort of tongue-tied. Also, it might be juvenile to argue with a toddler.
Max rounds the couch and sinks down next to his nephew. He musses Oliver’s hair in this sweet, devoted way that makes my heart turn over. “Oli, be nice to Jill,” he says, and as my name leaves his mouth, he looks at me. His perusal holds for a second—my naked face, my sloppy ponytail, my baggy fleece—before he gives his head a little shake and props his feet on the coffee table. He focuses on Barney and his gaggle of dancing kinder-friends, as if I’m not standing five feet away.
When I can’t tolerate the silence any longer, I fill it with mindless prattle. “So, um, your mom’ll be home soon. In a few minutes, probably. You know, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” He turns to Oliver. “Whatcha drinking, buddy?”
“Juice,” Oliver says.
Max regards me. “Did you dilute it?”
“Dilute it with what?”
“Water. Zoe’s a freak about Oliver and juice. He can only have it if it’s diluted, and then only, like, half a cup.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I feel a twinge of guilt, which is stupid. It’s just juice.
“Two,” Oliver tells Max, displaying two chubby fingers.
“Two what, buddy?”
Oli holds out his empty cup. “Two juice.”
Max chuckles. “Oh, man. You better not tell your mommy.”
With that, Oliver groans, clutches his stomach, and throws up all over the floor.
I gasp. Max hollers, “Shit!” and yanks his feet out of the line of fire. Oliver starts to cry.
Max recovers with impressive speed. He runs to the kitchen while I sit next to a sobbing Oliver, my hand pressed over my nose and mouth to block the pungent stench of toddler puke. I should probably comfort him or something, but I cannot bring myself to move closer to the vomit. My eyes are watering as it is.
Max returns with paper towels and all-purpose cleaner. He blasts me with an incensed glare before kneeling to wipe the hardwood.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my apology muffled by my hand.
He scrubs, grumbling, “Dilute the juice next time.”
When the mess has been handled—with zero help from me—Max carries Oliver out of the room to clean him up. I sit stiffly, trying to get a grip on my gag reflex.
They return a few minutes later, Oliver in a fresh outfit, sitting atop his uncle’s broad shoulders. I catch a welcome whiff of soap as Max lumbers past, dumping his giggling cargo on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I really didn’t know.”
“It’s my mom’s fault. You don’t like kids; she shouldn’t have left him with you.”Because you’re heartless, not to mention hopelessly inept, he might as well tack on. He plops down next to Oliver, giving his bony back a thump. “You gonna be okay, buddy?”
