She’s okay, Summer mouths to me when we make eye contact. This feels anything but. When I get to Quinn, I drop to a squat and squeeze her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Da-eee, stay.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Here I was giving Blake a lecture about how he treated her, and I’m no better. I left her when she needed me.
I brush the hair out of her face. “I know. I’m sorry.”I want to be able to stay for you.
How do I tell a four-year-old that my own trauma surfaced? That I wasn’t going to be able to comfort her until the anxiety attack calmed. She won’t understand any of that. All I can do is show her how much she means to me. I wrap my arms around her little body. She melts against my chest, tucking her head under my chin.
“I thought your dad was picking you up early?” Summer asks Blake.
I stand with Quinn in my arms and turn around. Blake dodges eye contact with every parent and kid walking by us who overheard that.
“I—”
“He’s riding home with us,” I whisper to Summer. “You coming?” I ask Blake.
Without a word, he follows us to Summer’s car and climbs into the back seat. After I’ve buckled Quinn in, she peels the ladybug sticker off my shirt and holds it out to him
“He ya doe!”
“Oh, he gets the lucky sticker now?” I tease.
A hesitant arm reaches for it. He smiles at her. “Cool. Thanks.”
She watches him flip his skateboard over and stick it on the veneer artwork sketching the bottom. Then she gives him my favorite closed-lips, you-pleased-me smile. And just like that, she’s forgiven him. Why is it never that easy for adults? I ponder that question all forty city blocks it takes to get to the two-story home with navy blue shutters. The driveway is empty. No signs of life in the dark windows either.
“This is it,” Blake confirms, shouldering his backpack.
“You good?” I ask, knowing he won’t let us stay. Worried how long he’ll be alone for.
“Yeah. Thanks again for the sticker, Quinn. I love it.”
The best apology if I ever heard one. Maybe he did learn a thing or two. She feeds him another smile.
A gold key glints in the palm of his hand as I watch him round the car. When he summits the final step on his porch, I call out his name through a rolled-down window.
“Yeah?”
“That thing you did on the sidewalk…” I do a little swirl with my pointer finger. “You should do that. For the talent show.”
A dimple sinks into his cheek with his tipped-up smile. “It’s called a heelflip, Rhett Dawson.”
Of course it is.An ego check from a fifth grader. Nothing puts you in your place quite like it.
26
EVERETT
Thisis by far the worst.
That’s the thought running through my head as I add the 312th mistake I’ve made with Quinn to the open journal in my lap. Sharpie wouldn’t make it any more glaring than it already is.
I messed up today. It started when I let the record label’s email get to me. I realized that their pressure went beyond having three songs ready and hinges on a successful tour. Something I am seriously doubting I can give them after the school incident.
Every coping strategy I’ve ever relied on has lost its power, and I’m out of ideas.
Summer offered to read to Quinn at bedtime again, so I came out on the patio to repent for my shortcomings. Also to call the one person who has always offered me advice when I needed it.
