@belinda.mc: Lucca? @luccacruz3 is that actually you?
She sounds a little too excited. How could I have made my intentions any clearer?
Me: Yes. I’m only messaging about Maggie. Is this the Lindy who has a sister named Maggie?
@belinda.mc: Yes. Mother of Wyatt, whose birthday party you attended—proof enough for you? What about Maggie?
Yes! Itisher.
Me: I’m actually messaging about Maggie and Wyatt. Wyatt invited me to dinner a while back. I’m wondering if you can make that happen?
Twenty-Four
I pulldishes from the cupboard, listening to Wyatt ramble on to Dad about the train museum we visited today. I hand him one plate at a time, and he sets them on the table.
“Wyatt has a friend coming to dinner,” Lindy says, handing me an extra plate.
My brows knit. I don’t know about any friend. It’s not like Lindy couldn’t have set something up, it’s just that she normally doesn’t. “A playdate? On a school night?”
“It’ll be fine,” Lindy says. “Wyatt will get to bed on time. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Okay. It’s just he’s had a long day. He’s going to be tired.”
“And then!” Wyatt bellows, wide awake, as if proving me wrong on purpose. “We saw theBig Boy! Well, just a picture of the Big Boy. But do you even know what the Big Boy is, Grandpa? Because I can tell you.”
“Trains might be the new banana cream pie,” Lindy whispers to me.
I smother a laugh. Maybe we’d be allowed to try anotherdessert every now and then if Wyatt became obsessed with trains.
Wyatt’s arms spread wide, showing Dad just how giant that train was. He’s not wrong. It was impressive.
“Wyatt,” Mom says. “Did you want to add the wafer cookies to your pudding?”
My nephew drops his arms. “Not yet. I don’t want them to be soggy for—” His head swivels, and he looks right at me. His lips purse. He’s been acting funny ever since he told his mother goodbye this morning. “Myfriend.”
“What’s that about?” I ask Lindy.
She shrugs and pops one of the vanilla wafers from the box into her mouth. “Who knows? He’s a goofball,” she says around her cookie.
Okay… she might be acting funny, too. I set the extra plate onto the table and peer at my sister. “He’s a?—”
“Come on, Wyatt,” Lindy says, interrupting me. “Let’s get you washed up for dinner.”
I look at my mother and set one hand on my hip. “Lindy never sends him to wash up.” I send him, and most of the time, I get a very impatient groan.
Mom shrugs, but she doesn’t look at me. She just keeps mashing her boiled potatoes. “She is his mother, dear.”
Ouch. Why does that sting so much coming from Mom? She hasn’t said anything untrue. “I know that. You think I don’t know that? I do.” But the fact is, Lindy doesn’t normally set rules or boundaries. “I know something’s up. What’s going on?”
“Your nephew has a pal coming over. I’ve made meatloaf. Is it really all that mysterious?”
“Apal? Who’s coming to dinner, Mother?”
The doorbell rings, and Mom looks up from her pan of potatoes. “There he is. Go see for yourself.”
I peer at the table, set for six, and walk to the living roomentrance. Pulling in a tired breath—twenty-two kindergartners and a train museum would wear anyone out—I reach for the doorknob. Well, Lindy invited this friend over, so Lindy is going to have to deal with him. I’m taking a bath and drinking a dirty Diet Coke.
I pull open the door, peering downward where a five-year-old should be. But this friend isn’t five.
