“Oh. I don’t think I’m part of the meeting.”
“Please,” Brooke said, and Honey couldn’t help but nod her head.
Honey followed the girls down the hall, her bare feet sinking slightly into the worn runner rug as she went.
She’d been too busy cataloging tasks and mentally organizing introductions and responsibilities to take in the living room earlier. But now, with no checklist in hand and nothing to do but follow, she noticed everything. The wainscoting and the faded floral wallpaper above it. The scribbled drawings affixed to the wall with Scotch tape. She squinted at one as she passed it, but for the life of her couldn’t tell what it was.
Emma went to the farthest corner of the couch, curling into it with her eyes fixed on something beyond the window.
Honey perched on the edge of the sagging green couch and tried not to sink too far into the cushion. The crocheted throw on one side slid down as she shifted. She picked it up and folded it carefully. It smelled faintly like some kind of perfume that itched her nose. A large oak coffee table sat in the middle of the room, clearly well used and scratched, and littered with a half-dressed Barbie head-down in a teacup, a puzzle missing its last corner piece, and a handful of crayon nubs in a chipped cereal bowl.
It was so well, loved, that it made Honey immediately picture family game nights with cards splayed across the table, half-finished puzzles left out overnight, juice spills wiped up between fits of laughter.
The kind of family nights she’d only ever seen in sitcoms.
Brooke plopped down beside Honey with zero regard for personal space. She promptly unwrapped the package in her hands with the flair of a magician unveiling a trick. With a flick of her wrist, the roll of neon-red Fruit by the Foot unfurled dramatically. She peeled back the paper and stuck one end into her mouth.
“Want some?” she mumbled, already chewing.
Honey recoiled slightly, pressing herself further into the arm of the couch to avoid the sticky ribbon dangling near her lap. “No, thank you.”
“Sorry,” Brooke said, around the mouthful of candy.
“A proper apology usually includes what you're sorry for.”
Brooke blinked at her, then resumed chewing, slowerthis time as she considered. She wiped her fingers on her leggings, smearing red dye in the process.
“I’m sorry you were scared,” she said finally, lips twitching into a grin. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she said, just as the sound of footsteps signaled Ethan and Melly’s return.
They entered hand in hand, Melly in mismatched socks and Ethan looking like he’d needed a coffee or a stiff drink. Maybe both.
He grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, turned it around, and straddled it backwards. Something in the move made Honey’s pulse flutter.
She straightened instinctively, then mentally scolded herself for noticing how his forearms flexed as he folded them across the top of the chair.
“Alright,” he said. “Brooke first. Apologize.”
“But Dad?—”
“Already done, Mr. Hale,” Honey said quickly. It was best not to waste time on a useless squabble.
Ethan blinked at her once before turning to Emma. “Okay, Emma, you’re up. Ms. Baxter says you have something you need to talk to me about.”
Silence.
A long one.
“Emma?” Ethan tried again.
“Forget it. I changed my mind,” Emma muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”
Before anyone could respond, the front door clanged open, and Marlene thrust her head inside like a subway rat on garbage night. Her gray curls bobbed as she scanned the room, and she brightened the moment she saw Honey. “Oh, good. You’re still here.”
“She’s just about to leave,” Ethan said.
“Hm.” Marlene stepped in fully, leaving the door agape behind her. “Well, before you go, I’d like to bend your ear a second. You know all about regulations and such, right?”
