“Why?” she continued.
The truth—there were so many reasons. Dings on doors, awkward conversations, and so on. “I don’t really know,” I told her.
“My uncle Brody does the same thing. It’s because he’s in love with his truck and doesn’t want anyone to park too close.”
“Is that his truck down by my Jeep?” I asked, getting ready to rush Parker’s little legs to move faster to avoid Brody.
“Yup, it is,” she said, twisting around to peek over her shoulder. “See, he’s right behind us.”
I wasn’t about to turn around and make eye-contact with Brody.
“So, if you’re a mom of another child in this school, why are you taking Parker somewhere and not your so-called daughter? Where is she?” There it was: the question that would force me to stop and explain why it seemed like I was kidnapping his niece.
“My daughter went home with a friend, and I offered to bring Parker home,” I shouted back without turning around.
“You don’t have a daughter,” Parker muttered through pressed lips.
“Shh,” I hushed her.
“But, why did you lie?” she continued.
I am not a socialite, and I wasn’t in the mood for a quick rendezvous, and that was before I recognized I was dealing with Brody Pearson.
“Okay, stop,” Brody demanded. “Brett didn’t tell me anyone else was bringing her home. I need to know who you are before my niece gets into your car.”
Parker looked up at me with doe-eyes as if telling me to do the right thing. I had to understand his concern, a little. I stopped walking and turned around, crossing my arms over my chest, activating my defense mode. “I told you who I am. I’m Journey Milan.”
“How do you know my brother, Brett?”
I stared at him for a long minute, wondering if he believed I wasn’t the Journey he used to know … because he definitely knew me. My hair was, in fact, red back in the day, and now it’s dark. Plus, I had aged a little more than a decade.
“I thought your last name was Quinn?” Parker said.
I was outed by a seven-year-old.
“It was,” I told her. “It’s a long adult story.”
“Oh,” Parker said, scratching the side of her face with confusion.
“Journey Quinn,” Brody sighed and smirked with pride. “I know that name well. But hey, no judgment on the new last name and no wedding band. I’m not one to talk.”
“Speaking of which, where is your daughter?” I tried to change the subject.
“Oh, I knew I forgot something,” he said, spinning around dramatically. “She was in the truck about two minutes before you turned around. You’re very perceptive. Maybe I should bring Parker home.”
“Brody, Brody, Brody. Boy, do I remember you well,” I told him, trying my best to challenge his little mind game. “Always in trouble. Never at family events for reasons no one seems to know. But I’m aware.”
“What are you talking about?”
Our families grew up together. Our dads had been doing business since before the time either of us was born. We would see each other a few times throughout each year. Still, since Brody is a few years older, he was often missing from social events because he had a “game” or “practice” to attend. However, I knew the truth because Brett mentioned his behavioral issues when we were younger. Brody was a troublemaker, and his parents must have been afraid to bring him to social events. “Never mind,” I told him, wanting to end the conversation, yet again.
“Is this because I wasn’t at your dad’s funeral?”
My eyes widened at his blunt question. “Wow, way to be forward there.”
Brody held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I—I couldn’t be at the funeral because I had to drive Hannah to Connecticut, so her wonderful mother could take her for the long weekend.”
“I didn’t expect to see you at my father’s funeral, so no worries there,” I told him. I was irritated that we had to discuss the matter at all.
