Page 40 of Tied Over

Her face brightened. “It was?”

“Oh yes,” I assured her. “If you feel like something is wrong, you have to go with your gut. That’s important.”

“My gut?”

“Like how you feel inside. You have to listen to that and follow what you think is right. Run away from what you think is wrong.”

“Okay.”

“You did really good.”

She was beaming up at me.

“Now listen, how about you and me go get some food together, and you can show me which one is your Uncle Luke. Would that be okay?”

“You’ll stay by me?”

“Yes, ma’am, I will.”

She bit her bottom lip. “You’re kinda hurt, though.”

“That’s true. But lemme show you something, all right?” Watching me, I saw her eyes get big when I stood up. “You see? I was sitting down so you couldn’t tell, and you probably thought I was small.”

“You’re really big.”

“And it’s only this arm right here that’s hurt. All the rest of me is good.”

“Yeah. You’re bigger than Luke—I mean, Uncle Luke.”

Little slip there. “Luke isn’t your uncle, is he?” I asked as she stood up beside me, slipping her hand into mine as we walked toward the two enormous tables covered in food.

“No. He’s my Uncle Giles’s friend, and he said I should call him uncle because everybody does. I understand because my mom has friends like my Aunt Viv and my Aunt Marta who aren’t related to me but I call aunt anyway.”

“Sure, that makes sense.”

At the table, I took a plate and passed it to her, surveying the other kids: five in the pool and another three playing what looked like tag. Four women sat by the pool, observing them; two men were racing the kids who were running around, while a man and a young boy were flying a kite. All the children were supervised except Stella.

“Hey, Star,” a man said, stepping up on the opposite side of the table and grabbing a plate, his entire focus on the little girl. “I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you were hungry?”

She nodded and looked up at me.

“Macaroni and cheese, right?” I asked her.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, here’s the spoon,” I said, passing it to her. “Pile it on.”

“Don’t eat those beans,” she said, pointing at the baked ones. “My mom says that most people make them with way too much brown sugar and they’ll give you the runs.”

I snorted. “Do you even know what the runs are?”

She gestured for me to bend down close, then whispered in my ear, “Squirtles.”

“Ah,” I said, straightening. “Well, we don’t want that.”

“No,” she agreed. “Do you want macaroni too?”

“I do. Just not as much as you,” I said, lifting my eyes from her to the man staring at me. “Hi. You must be Luke.”