Tammy closes the folder, slides a hand under the table, and squeezes my knee. There it is again. What’s it mean? Should’ve asked the first time, not now when the stakes are high and we’re all leaning in to hear the verdict.
“When can we move in?” she asks.
HOME RUN.
EPILOGUE
Five years later
If you thoughta girl who made me run seven miles after a moving vehicle would say I had to stick around for a year and not mean it, think again. But stuck around I have, and Tammy married me. We’re on year four of our marriage, and have gathered on an open field for an Easter egg hunt.
My daughter, Leah, sits on my hip while the girls tap on their phones, texting other girls on the Easter egg hunt.
“Melany,” Reagan says and tucks her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “Don’t text Jenna.”
“Why not?”
“Jenna is the enemy until the hunt is over.”
Reagan extends a fist, and I bump it, then survey the layout. Open field, lots of trees. The eggs are likely not in places I’d have put them to actually hide something, like digging up a grave in Mexico and hiding a Mafia boss’s money. I know most people are normal and won’t think the way I think.
Other parents come closer to us, and I put Leah down, glaring at one dad. He moves back into his previous position. Mm-hm.
Leah tugs on my hand. At three years old, she’s wearing lip gloss and seven bows in her hair, courtesy of Melany, who thinks of Leah as her living doll. “I want to find at least thirteen eggs, Daddy.”
“Got it.” Target: thirteen eggs.
“You think I can find that many?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’ve got the layout of the land, and a plan.” When you have small kids, lots of things don’t go as planned. I hatch out a plan only to have it completely demolished by a three-year-old when she spills something all over her clothes.
Having kids is like commanding soldiers who don’t particularly feel the need to fall in line. Nobody really listens to me, but I love pretending I’m running the house.
I check my watch and note it’s two minutes to eleven. “Okay, Team MacLoyd, gather in.” I clap my hands, and the girls huddle around me. Crouching, I lock eyes with each of them. They look determined. This is great. “Target is thirteen eggs. You will call out each egg so we can all count. Reagan, take the bushes. Melany, the trees. Leah, you run point and collect. Clear?”
“Clear, Dad!” they shout.
Hurrah. I’m pumped. Let’s do this.
The pastor walks over to the front of the line, and the families gather. I’m counting kids. Lots of kids means my girls are gonna have to be fast and ruthless.
The pastor thanks everyone for coming, and when he goes into the significance of Easter, I check my watch, tap my foot, and lock eyes with Tammy, who’s at my nine o’clock resting onthe grass. She’s nine months pregnant, with swollen feet, and can’t do much standing right now.
Still, she can smile. Tammy can always smile, and probably at my expression. She knows all my expressions, especially this murderous one, because if the pastor doesn’t blow the whistle soon, I’ll gag him and take charge of the hunt.
Five minutes later, and Fucking A, he’s still talking.
I check my watch. Ten past eleven. A glance at Dawson tells me he’s as irritated as I am, standing at my three o’clock, glaring at the pastor.
Finally, the talking stops, and I let go of Leah’s hand and crouch again. “Stay focused. On point. Kick anyone who’s compromising your mission.”
Leah nods, curls bouncing off her shoulder.
The whistle blows, and Reagan takes off for the bushes like a bullet, practically tackling a boy in her way. Yup. My chest puffs out, and I walk to sit behind Tammy so she can lean on my body. I press a hand over her belly and rub to see if I can get a kick. When I don’t get one, I poke her belly.
