“Behind what?”
“I took her to the library the other day and this little boy herage had a full-on conversation with her. I’m talking five-word sentences.”
This has nothing to do with hiding.
“I think Quinn could use speech therapy,” Caroline adds. “You need to get her tested.”
The hair on my arms stands at attention. I quickly cover it with the gray sweatshirt I left draped over the dining room chair.
“Quinn’s fine. She’s barely four.”
Every kid is different.
“She’s a four-year-old who calls meTo-To.” She tries to make her point by emphasizing the Ts.
Ah. So, it’s theWizard of Oznickname that’s getting to her. She picked it. And it’s not likeCocois an easy thing for a kid to say.
She presses in closer, lurking over my shoulder. “She calls you ‘Da-eee.’”
“I like that she calls me that,” I respond calmly, but I feel the tension rising. Blood pumps through my veins. She’s acting like it was just yesterday she was a mother of a four-year-old. Frankly, it’s been a long time. And also, it’s not like Quinn isn’t talking at all. She says plenty.
“Really?” she asks, as if it’s a ridiculous notion.
I’m trying to remain a beacon of tranquility, but it feels impossible with her breathing down my neck all the damn time. She’s been here every single day since my parents left. She shows up whenever she wants to. She demands to take Quinn for outings. Drops off groceries after her fit over the box of Fruit Loops she found in the cupboard. Folds laundry with my briefs in it. The woman has no boundaries, and I need to find a way to get some space from her or I’m going to end up saying something I regret.
She doesn’t take the hint and closes in. “There are kids herage with a significantly larger vocabulary. You aren’t paying attention.”
I toss the handful of shoes in the basket next to the door and turn on her. “For fuck’s sake, that’s all I’ve been doing is paying attention! She doesn’t need speech therapy!” I scream in her face at the exact same time a fist pounds at the front door.
“Watch yourlanguage.” Caroline scowls at me as I grip the handle and jerk it open. It swings wide and bounces off the wall, leaving a dent behind where a door stopper should have caught it.
“What the hell is it?” I say to the person on the other side.
A woman is crouched in front of a kid wearing a cowboy hat, patiently coaching him as his small fist hovers in midair.
“And that is why it’s polite to knock softerrr—” She hangs on to the last letter when our eyes meet for the first time.
Her hair is tied back in a ponytail instead of a clip, and she’s wearing a tank top and cut-off denim shorts instead of the T-shirt with my face on it the day we met.
She straightens. “Hi! I mean… hello?” Then she swivels her head from side to side until her eyes catch on the metal house numbers. “I’m… sorry, I—” She pulls her phone from her shorts pocket and stares at it. Then she chuckles awkwardly. “Funny story… we were looking for a birthday party, but I think we might have gotten the wrong address. I never expected?—”
“You.” I finish the sentence for her.
Impulsive. Smiley. Energetic. The ideal combination to get Caroline off my back. If there was ever a perfect moment for my path to cross with this woman again, it’s now.
“Come in.”
3
SUMMER
Six weeks ago…
“Tell me… why… this was a good… idea again?” my best friend pants.
I never notice our height difference until she’s having to jog alongside my giraffe legs to keep up. The merch line already snakes past the concession booth, and I’m not compromising between the opening song of this concert and my new nightshirt. I drag her by the hand.
“Because we’re thirty-one, single, and it’sRhett Dawson,” I explain.
