“Jenna!” she calls out, breaking away from her teacher and running toward me. There’s another feeling—joy—that she smiles like that because of me.
The teacher follows, that perfect grin still in place. “You must be Mrs. Kirillov,” she says, extending her hand. Okay, Mrs. Kirillov still sounds weird. “I’m Ms. Carter. Livy mentioned her dad’s new wife was picking her up today.”
New wife.It sounds like I’m his property. Like a shiny new car.
I shake her hand, my grip perhaps firmer than necessary. “Yes, I’ll be filling in from now on.”
Her eyes sparkle with interest. “Oh, we all love Mr. Kirillov here. Such an involved father.”
I bet you do, I think, then immediately hate myself for it.
“I have Livy’s folder with today’s assignments,” she continues, handing me a blue plastic folder. “There’s a math worksheet and some reading. She’s been doing so well with her sight words.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the folder and forcing professionalism into my voice. What the hell are sight words? I’ll google it later. I don’t want her to think she is smarter than me. “I’ll make sure she completes everything.”
Livy tugs at my hand. “Can we go now? I’m huuuungry.”
“Of course,” I say, relieved for the excuse. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Carter.”
“Likewise,” she says with that silly bright smile again. “See you tomorrow, Livy-bug. And please say hello to Mr. Kirillov for me.”
I wave back and copy her smile with what I’m sure is a completely normal and not at all petty amount of sarcasm. I’llsooner eat this designer blazer, button by button, than pass along her little message.
Absolutely not.
God, I’m embarrassing.
As we walk to my car, Livy skipping beside me, I try to process my bizarre reaction. Jealousy? Over Colton? No. I’m just tired. Stressed from the case. That has to be it.
“Jenna, do you know how to make mac and cheese?” Livy asks as I help her into the booster seat Colton installed in my car this morning.
“Um, from a box? Probably.”
She giggles. “Daddy burns it sometimes.”
The image of Colton burning mac and cheese makes me smile despite myself.
“Well, I can’t promise I’ll do any better,” I tell her, buckling her in. “But we’ll give it a shot, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, swinging her legs. “I can help.”
An hour later, we’re back in Colton’s apartment and fully fed. I managed to not burn her mac and cheese.
“Homework first, then snack,” Livy announces, dropping her backpack on the kitchen table. Clearly a routine.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, setting my briefcase next to her unicorn backpack.
We tackle the math worksheet first. Simple addition, nothing too challenging. Livy chews on her pencil, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“My dad says math is important if you want to count goals,” she informs me seriously.
“Is that so?” I can’t help but smile. “And what else does your dad say?”
“He says I’m smarter than all his teammates put together. And that when I grow up, I can be whatever I want, even president, but not a hockey player because it’s too dangerousand he doesn’t want my face to get hurt like his nose, jaw, teeth, ears and forehead did.”
“He’s had that many injuries?”
“Uh-huh. His nose got brokenthreetimes.” She traces her own nose. “That’s why it looks a little bumpy. He says it gives him character, but I think he just says that to make himself feel better.”
