Page 7 of Pumpkin to Talk About

He chuckles, and the sound does something to my insides that I’m not proud of. “Typical Bonnie Belle,” he says. “Always with the big ideas.”

When we were in school, I would have taken that as an insult. I would have scoffed and made sure to body check his shoulder as I walked past. But there’s no malice in it now. He almost sounds impressed.

“Sure. I can help.” He flashes me a warm smile. Then, he raises his hand and rubs the back of his neck. “For the kids.”

I let out a breath, relieved. “Right. Great. So, tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.” He turns around to continue on his way, and I’m ashamed of how long I watch him go.

This was probably a big mistake. Spending time with Mike Page isn’t high on my wishlist. But if it means this haunted house will get built, then so be it.

And if he wears those sweatpants again, I certainly won’t complain.

Chapter 5

Mike

“Okay.” I clap my hands loudly as I stand in the doorway of Annie’s bedroom. I can only see a lump under her comforter, but it moves at the sound. At least I know she’s alive under there. “The house is clean. The porch steps won’t kill you. The kids are at school for”—I check my watch—“two more hours. Time to get you out of bed.” I sniff the air. “And into the shower.”

“Fuck you,” Annie’s muffled voice sounds weak and quiet.

“Aww, you don’t mean that,” I croon.

“I very much do.” She pulls the comforter tighter over her head. “Let me wallow in peace.”

“No can do, Anna Banana.” I’m pulling out all the stops with my childhood nickname for her. I use it in hopes that she’ll at least pop her head out and glare at me, but she doesn’t. She just remains still and silent.

Damn.

Time to change tactics. I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe. I’m going to be here for a while.

“I thought you said you kicked him out,” I say.

“I did,” she responds simply.

“This is not the behavior of a woman who has just liberated herself from the confines of a shitty relationship. We should be celebrating.”

At that, she does pop her head out from under the comforter. Her hair is a bona fide rat’s nest, and her eyes are bloodshot, but her expression is worth it. She’s looking at me like I have three heads.

“What’s with the feminist diatribe?” she croaks. Now that it’s not muffled by the comforter, her voice sounds like she’s been crying for weeks straight. Which she probably has.

Belle appears at the front of my mind, unbidden—her hands on her gloriously full hips as she took me to task for not teaching Claire how to use a hammer and saw like I taught Nicholas.

I shake my head to clear it. “It’s hardly feminist. And hardly a diatribe.” I mimic her thick, Texan drawl with each word.

She rolls her eyes. “I know you got that fancy degree and that fancy software engineer job up in Indiana,” she intones, “but don’t pretend you and I had different childhoods. You came from here, just like the rest of us.”

I scoff. “So what? That means I can’t be a modern man or join the twenty-first century?” Except, for all my talk, maybe I haven’t if I left Claire out of the manual labor without even thinking. Sure, it’s not that big of a deal, but for some reason, I want to impress Belle. Despite my upbringing, and despite what may have happened between Belle and me in the past, I want her to know I’ve changed.

This conversation has taken a turn I wasn’t expecting, so before she can say anything else, I add, “Regardless, it doesn’t take a feminist to know that you did the right thing kicking Jacob out on his ass. You can wallow, but you also have to shower.”

She flops back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. “But what am I going to do?” The last word is stretched and moaning, like the battery-operated ghost in the box of decorations I found in the shed. That thing scared the shit out of me.

“What do you mean, what are you going to do? You’re going to participate in basic human hygiene. Maybe have dinner with your children who love you.”

Annie slaps the comforter with both her hands on either side of her body. “That’s not what I meant, you asshole. I mean about the rest of my life.” Her voice cracks on the end like she’s about to cry again. Sure enough, wetness glistens on her cheeks in the light between the curtains.

I let out a low whistle and sit on the edge of the bed, covering her hand with mine. “The rest of your life is kind of big, Anna Banana. Let’s just start with the shower and a meal, huh? We’ll figure the rest of it out as we go.”