Surely, someone’s missing her if she’s here alone talking to me, arguably the most unapproachable person here.
“Why not?Yousaid it first.”
I squint at her, my eyes narrowing. “Yeah, well, I’m an adult. That’s an… adult word. Just don’t say it, alright?”
“Whatever you say. But I know what it means.”
I hum but don’t respond, hoping that she’ll get bored and amble off somewhere else.
“It means you don’t like him. Why don’t you like him?” Her bright eyes are curious and imploring.
Reaching up, I drag my hand along the length of my jaw, realizing how unfit I am to deal with this.
I can handle slamming a two-hundred-pound, six-foot-three defenseman into the boards like it’s not shit, but this? Adorable, sassy kids?
Nah. Not my thing.
“Where’re your parents at?” I finally ask.
“Dead.”
She says it so simply, so casually, as if she’s responding with the weather, that I almost fucking choke.
Holy shit.
“Uh… I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs. “Not your fault. My foster mom is over there.” She lifts her finger, pointing it in the direction of the table on the other side of the room to a short, dark-haired lady who’s speaking animatedly with a man. “She likes to bring me to stuff like this because she says I’m socially awkward.”
Jesus Christ, this kid has zero filter.
Nada.
I nod. “I see.”
“I’m Kori.” Suddenly, her hand shoots out toward me. “Nice to meet you.”
After a beat, I slide my hand around hers, and she shakes it. “Wilder.”
Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a kid. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a situation like this, and my neck feels hot. Prickly. I have no fucking clue what to say or do.
But there’s something about this kid that keeps my feet rooted in place, carrying on this awkward conversation.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Nine. How old are you?”
I can’t fight the curve of my lip as I say, “Thirty-four.”
“Wow. That’s really old.”
I cut my gaze to her. “Thirty-four isnotold, kid.”
“Uh, yeah, it is,” she retorts, placing her palm on her hip. “Life expectancy has gone down in the last few years. You’ve got another forty years at best. Fifty if you’re lucky.”
“Shit. That’s kind of… morbid.”
Her shoulder lifts in a nonchalant shrug. “Not really. It’s just facts. At one of my foster homes, the one before the last one, one of the dads got this magazine about science, and sometimes when they…” She trails off, and my brow pulls tight. “When they would yell at each other, I’d use my flashlight under the covers and read. Sometimes I didn’t know the words, but I would ask about them at school the next day.”
