“And I like the fact you like it,” I tell him, satisfied.
Skylar rolls her eyes.
“It’s downstairs.” I use the dessert as a convenient excuse to get them out of the room. “You could always study down there, too?”
“We’ve only just opened the book,” Skylar protests.
“You’d be comfier down there.”
“I don’t mind,” Carter says, getting to his feet. My daughter begrudgingly does the same.
“I’m not eating any of your fucking apple tart,” she says, glaring daggers at me.
“You can do whatever you want. Me and my friend Carter,” I say, wrapping my arm around his shoulders, “will eat enough for the both of you.”
Niall
How is it going?
I look at my phone. Apparently, my headmistress can’t survive even five minutes without talking to me.
I dragged them out of her room. Now they’re in the living room, under my supervision.
Doesn’t that seem a little harsh?
You should’ve thought of that before you gave me a heart attack.
I lift my eyes from my phone and shove a piece of tart into my mouth, as Carter silently examines my daughter’s homework. She watches him nervously, apparently intent on chewing her nails down to the quick.
“So?” she asks, impatient. “Does it suck?”
Carter lifts one hand to ask her to wait. She scoffs nervously, then moves onto the other hand.
I’m beginning to understand the problem here – and I can’t help but smile. Skylar cares what Carter thinks; I’m worried that this is looking a little too familiar. Maybe she’s notallher mother, after all.
“They’re fine…” Carter says, cautiously.
“But?” she asks instantly.
“Here, look,” he says, laying down the sheet in front of her and pointing to something. “You forgot to add…” He grabs a pencil and scribbles something down.
“I knew it! Fuck!” Skylar brings her hand down on the desk.
“It’s not too bad, just…”
“I’ll never get it! This is so pointless.”
I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but they’re in the living room and I’m only in the kitchen; they can’t see me from where I’m standing. So I stay there, lurking around, slipping seamlessly into my role as the over-protective dad. I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Stop feeling sorry for me!”
“I don’t.”
“Ms Hill told you, didn’t she?”
“What?” he asks, genuine confusion on his terrified face.
