“I understand more than you think,” I shoot back, making a hairpin turn into the parking lot of the local Chinese restaurant. An enormous neon panda rotates lazily on a signpost; its cartoonish apathy amplifies my irritation. I throw the car into park and yank the keys from the ignition.
Dad backpedals. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that marriage takes effort. Sometimes it’s wonderful. Sometimes it feels like a job—like the most tedious job in the world.”
His honesty dampens my frustration. “I know about effort, Dad.”
“You do—more than I did at your age, that’s for sure. You’re growing up, and that’s hard for me to come to terms with. You did good, though, stepping in to help Meredith.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“You did. She’s told me time and again that she couldn’t have done it without you. Plus, you’re staying focused on school, and staying away from Max.”
On one hand, I wish I could tell my dad what Ireallythink: There’s not an excuse in the world good enough to pardon what he pulled on Ally’s birthday. And I’m focused on school because I suddenly need scholarship money, in large part because of him. And his assumptions regarding Max are unfounded and stupid. On the other hand, this exchange, his honesty and warmth, the bountiful compliments he’s sending my way… I’m clinging to all of it, tucking it away for safekeeping.
“Anyway,” he says. “You’re a good kid, Jill.”
He gives my hair a ruffle before climbing out of the car and heading into the restaurant.
24
ALLY IS NOT A SOUND SLEEPER.
I mean, I assumed she’d wake up during the night, but I figured Meredith would get her, change her, feed her, and put her back to bed.
That’s not how it works.
Ally’s up at all hours, crying and carrying on. I’m shocked out of sleep by her wails, then forced to lie awake listening to Meredith’s singing—“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” or “Rock-a-Bye Baby”—her footsteps echoing up and down the hallway as she paces with the baby. Occasionally it’s Dad who gets up, and then it’s the theme song fromStar WarsI hear, hummed low and lethargically. Over and over and over.
She really is a leech baby; she purloins sleep.
According to Meredith, Ally naps all day. I wouldn’t know because I’ve spent the last couple of days suffering through school and work with a wicked case of exhaustion. Call me crazy, but common sense seems to dictate thatsomeoneshould be keeping the baby busy during daylight hours so she—and the rest of us—can sleep at night.
I plan on spending my Saturday in sweats, experimenting with a classic chocolate soufflé recipe and napping sporadically. That’s until Meredith calls me into the nursery, where she’s dressing Ally in a cheerful pink onesie. “Marcy and Max are coming for a visit.”
“Max?Why?”
She glances at me, one hand resting on the baby, surprise widening her eyes. How’s she to know I’m head over heels for our neighbor, the very boy who’s made the last few months of my life agonizing? How’s she to know I have no idea what to say to him about his suddenly single status? How’s she to know that when I’m in his presence I feel like a hot-air balloon—swollen with heat, in danger of floating away?
“I mean, I just don’t get why he’d spend his Saturday sitting around with you and Marcy and a baby.”
“Because he wants to? And you make a good point. It’d be nice if you sat with us, especially since your dad’s working. I don’t want him to get bored.”
“If boredom’s an issue, maybe he shouldn’t come.”
“Jillian! I thought Max was your friend?”
“He was—is—but I planned to spend the day baking.”
Meredith bends to kiss Ally on the forehead; the baby squirms, kicking the air. “Can’t you bake later?” she coos. “This sweet girl and I want your company.”
I frown. “Using the baby against me? Manipulation much?”
Meredith grins, triumphant. “Thanks, Jill. I owe you one. They’ll be here in an hour.”
I sigh and head for the shower. So much for sweats.
It’s almost lunchtime when the doorbell rings. My stomach drifts to the ground, fluttering like a leaf in a downdraft, though I pretend I don’t hear the chime. I steal a cracker from the platter Meredith’s set out, loaded with Brie, grapes, and apple slices. There’s a big pitcher of lemonade, too. I don’t mention that lemonade seems unfitting for a day cool and cast in impenetrable cloud cover, though, because it’s nice to see her bustling around the kitchen the way she did before her pregnancy.
The bell sounds again. Meredith must give up on me being any help, because she hurries out of the kitchen to open the front door.
