“He said my art project looked like a melted unicorn.” She scowls. “It did not.”
“It absolutely did not,” I say solemnly. “It was abstract. Very high-end gallery vibes.”
She giggles, then sighs. “He always says stuff like that. Or he steals my pencils.”
I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders. “Hmm.”
“What?”
I tilt my head, lowering my voice like I’m sharing classified information. “It sounds suspiciously like Evan might have a crush on you.”
Her jaw drops. “Ew.”
“Why ew?”
“Because he’s annoying.”
“Exactly.”
She studies me. “Then why does he pick on me?”
I squeeze excess water from her hair, fingers gentle. “Because boys don’t always know how to show their feelings. Sometimes they say the opposite of what they mean.”
She squints. “That sounds immature.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “It is immature.”
“And they don’t grow out of it?”
I hesitate just long enough to make it funny. “It… doesn’t always change as much as we’d like.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “That’s tragic.”
“It truly is,” I agree gravely.
I help her step out of the tub, wrap her in her pink robe, and settle her onto the closed toilet lid while I brush through her damp hair. The rhythm is easy, domestic, warm. Shechatters about school, about a science fair, about a dance she’s pretending she doesn’t care about.
When I finally braid her hair loosely over one shoulder, she hugs me tight around the middle. “You’re way better at this stuff than Dad.”
My heart stutters. “He tries.”
“I know.” She softens. “He just gets quiet.”
I smooth my palm over her back. “Your dad’s good at a lot of things.”
She grins mischievously. “Like lifting heavy stuff and scaring boys?”
“Those too.”
She laughs, then darts off toward her bedroom, yelling, “Night, Tess!”
“Night, Lacee!”
The bathroom falls quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet and the hum of the vent fan. I kneel to mop up puddles, my tank clinging damply to my skin, shorts soaked at the hem. My hair is a mess from the steam, curls sticking to my neck.
I reach for the towel hook, take one step backward—and collide with something solid.
Or someone.
