‘And how’s my favourite little daywalker?’June croons.
‘Mum!’Issy groans, covering her face.Then turning to me, she says, ‘Did you get a hold of Dad this week?’
I hesitate, then nod.‘Yep.’
‘And?’
‘He said he’ll be here.’
Issy relaxes a fraction, but June stiffens, spine straightening like a ranger spotting an off-leash dog.‘He better not bring that bimbo with him.’
‘He said it’ll just be him.’
‘Good,’ June mutters.Then, after a beat, she adds, ‘That’s if he shows.That man couldn’t keep a promise if it was gift-wrapped and stapled to his chest.’
I bite my tongue.For all her faults, she’s not wrong.He doesn’t show up.Not for Issy.Not for me.And certainly not for his grandkids.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’Issy asks her.
‘No.’June snorts.‘Men are trash.’
Issy frowns.‘Don’t you get lonely, though?’
June barks a laugh and ladles herself a cup of punch before she pulls out her infamous flask and adds a generous pour.‘Don’t be ridiculous, Isabella.Men are only good for money and offspring.I’ve got both.Now I’m living how I want to live.’
‘By day drinking?’Issy frowns.
June shoots her a withering glare.‘By doing whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want.’
Before I can throw myself headfirst into the nearest foam pit, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dad:
Not going to make it.Tell Isabella and the girls sorry.
Of course.I pull a face and Issy catches it.
‘Who was that?’
‘Dad.’
‘And?’
I pause, taking a deep breath, preparing to lie like I always do.‘He’s got the flu.Can’t make it.’
Issy’s face falls, her shoulders dipping.June sips her drink with a quirked eyebrow that says she knows I’m covering.We both do.Before the guilt can settle, my phone rings.Ella.We’ve been playing phone tag all week.I plug a finger in my ear, duck around the corner just outside the gym, and answer.
‘Hey.’
There’s a scream in the background on the other end of the line, followed by a tired sigh.‘Hi,’ Ella breathes, sounding equal parts frazzled and exhausted.‘Sorry.Daisy’s overtired.And overtired equals banshee.’
‘How’s my favourite little newborn?’
‘She’s four weeks old today with lungs like a trumpet.Pray for us.’
We trade updates for a bit.Small things.Safe things.
Then Ella hesitates.‘So …’ she says slowly, ‘how’s Dylan?’
