Page 138 of Keep Me Close

“I know,” I say, straightening and reaching for the pot I shoved in the fridge this morning before my bakery shift. “I’ll pick some up at the store tomorrow. Promise.”

“Can’t you go now?”

When I narrow my eyes at him, he flashes a dimpled grin in response.

Damn him.

It’s impossible to stay annoyed with the kid when he’s such a cutie.

I point at the table. “Homework, kiddo. I’m sure you have a math or reading sheet.”

His smile widens. “Nope. We did it at school.”

I don’t even blink. “Liar. Should I call Ms. Jennings right now? You know I have her number.”

With a pout, he hops down from the chair and drags it toward the table.

I move around the tiny kitchen, reheating soup, pulling out bread, and checking the clock on the microwave, all the while mentally running through tomorrow’s schedule. A headache is already brewing behind my eyes as I unscrew the cap on a bottle of ibuprofen with one hand and swallow three pills dry.

Bakery at six.

Sawyer has a math quiz tomorrow.

Caleb needs a permission slip signed.

Faith has dance after school.

I have a paper due Thursday, and an exam on Friday I’ve barely studied for.

Oh, and the electric bill is due in three days.

Which reminds me, I still need to email the financial aid office back.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m supposed to sleep.

Sure.

My siblings don’t ask who’s going to sign the field trip form or pick up crackers from the grocery store. They don’t know which day the rent clears or whether there’s enough detergent left to make it through the week. They just expect me to do it because they’re still kids and life has dealt them a shitty hand.

After Caleb was born, our mother decided that being a parent wasn’t in the cards for her and she skipped town without a word. By day three of her being MIA, I realized she wasn’t coming back.

So I got the job at Lakeshore Sweets and, thank God, it’s usually enough for us to squeak by.

I set bowls on the counter and wave the boys over while balancing my notebook open beside the toaster. My sociology notes stare back at me like a neon accusation.

Faith frowns at her screen. “Can you read this paragraph? I don’t know if it makes sense.”

“Nothing makes sense after eight-thirty at night,” I tell her. “You’re tired.”

“It’s only seven-forty.”

“Then why does it feel like midnight?”

No one answers because they’re too busy eating, arguing over who got more soup, and accusing each other of stealing chargers they absolutely all stole from each other at some point. Disappearing chargers are basically a recurring household crisis.

It’s exhausting.

I sink onto a chair with my own bowl and then read the same sentence in my notes for the third time without processing a single word.