Oh. He’s serious. I clear my throat and try to lighten the mood. “Really starting to doubt the ‘not gonna murder me’ angle.”
His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. “You okay back there, Beetlebug?”
A small, stifled yawn comes from behind me.
“Yeah, Daddy. We should have a kitty. A fluffy orange one, just like Purrlock.”
I actually see Beckett smile. What is this sorcery? This child is clearly filled with a powerful magic.
“We will see, kiddo. We are almost home, and it’s time for you to go to bed.”
The tiniest grumble I have ever heard has me covering my mouth not to laugh.
“I bet you don’t have a bedtime, Purrlock. Lucky,” Lennon mumbles.
“Actually,” I chime in, hoping to help diffuse the situation. “It’s his bedtime, too! He gets very grumpy if he’s sleepy.”
I don’t mention that the only times he is sleepy are after he stays up all night, raising hell in the hallways with the zoomies. That wouldn’t help anyone’s case.
“See? Everyone has a bedtime,” Beckett tells her.
“What’s your name, lady?”
“Lennon, you can’t ask it that way,” Beck huffs from beside me. “You have to be more polite.”
“Well, she’s a lady, and I don’t know her name.”
“She’s kinda got you there,” I say. He glares at me, and I put my hands up in surrender.
“You can just ask her what her name is, without calling her lady.”
“Oh,” Lennon says softly. “What’s your name?”
Beck makes an approving sound beside me, so I answer her.
“I’m Clover. Like the flower.” I say over my shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Are you sleeping over, Clover?” Her little tone changes. It’s the same voice I would use when I was her age if I wanted something.
“Uhh,” I fumble. Beckett picks up the play, though.
“Clover is Aunt Bee’s best friend from when she was your age. I’ve known her my whooole life,” he stretches out the word. “She can’t go to her house right now, so she’s going to stay at our house until Aunt Bee comes back. Is that alright with you, Beetlebug?”
She contemplates this for a minute, and when I look back at her, she’s thoughtfully chewing on her little bottom lip. “Under one commercial,” she states.
“Condition,” Beck corrects.
“Under one conditioner,” she starts again. “Purrlock has to stay the night in my room.”
“Lennon, you can’t just boss someone’s cat around.”
I laugh. “I can’t make any promises. He likes to wander around at night.” I notice her little hand is stuck through the top of the backpack, and my traitor cat is purring, fast asleep while she pets him. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue, though,” I tell her.
We pass the last store within 30 miles, and I quickly ask Beck to stop. He looks at me weirdly, but I remind him that cats don’t use toilets. Brynn has a cat, so I didn’t pack anything extra. He sighs, but pulls over. I hop out, promising to make it quick.
I hurry in, waving apologetically to the owner who was just about to close shop and rush through, getting everything I need for Lennon’s new best friend. As if by fate, right next to the register is a cute, squishy, stuffed orange cat. I plop it on top of all of the other stuff and apologize to the owner again for the late run.
When I get back to the truck, Beck puts his finger up to his mouth as a “shh”. He motions to the backseat with his head, and I see Lennon passed out in her booster seat. I nod and climb in as quietly as I can, closing my eyes tightly when I shut the door, as if that’s going to make it quieter somehow.
