Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
When I open the door, a cool breeze blows in along with Benny, who rushes in, still in her volleyball uniform and knee pads, ponytail swinging.
“Hi, Dad, bye, Dad,” she says as she skids across the hardwood floor, then sees Layla on the sofa and squeals as if she’d forgotten her guest would still be here. “Layla!”
In the doorway stands Skylar.
Huh. Weird.
“Hope I’m not bothering you.” She steps into the foyer without an invitation, a to-go bag clutched in her hand. “Benny insisted on ringing the bell.”
I clear my throat, shifting into Dad Mode before my brain can replay the last ten minutes in Dolby Surround. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Skylar says. “Dinner ran long because the girls decided to debate whether a churro is a pastry or a donut.” She lifts the bag. “We brought you a treat.”
I take the bag she’s holding out and take a peek inside at the clear container with a slice of cheesecake—then back at Skylar. “You didn’t have to bring us anything.”
“I know.” She tucks a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear, eyes flicking from my face to Layla on the couch, then back at me. Her pause feels . . . loaded?
Skylar clears her throat. “I also thought you might want a heads-up.”
My brows rise. “About?”
“So.” She steps closer. “At dinner,” she says carefully, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Benny told Greg and I that Layla is going to be her new mom.”
Fuck.
Fuck Fuck Fuck.
My stomach sinks. This is what I’d wanted to avoid by bringing Layla to our home; this is a problem I created—false hope inside my daughter.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She said that?”
Actually I don’t know why this news surprises me. It sounds exactly like something my daughter would announce; daydreaming and manifesting things into existence seem to be her specialty.
“She did.” Skylar steps back now, giving me space. “I’m not sure what your relationship is with, um, Layla—and it’s certainly none of my business—but Benny seems to think . . .”
I scrub a hand over the stubble on my jaw. “I’m sorry she put you on the spot like that.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.” Skylar’s tone is kind. “I only came to give you a heads-up before you hear it from the rumor mill.”
“Appreciated,” I say, and mean it. I look to the living room, where Layla is half watching Skylar and me chat, half watching television.
Skylar glances her way, then back at me. “For what it’s worth, Benny wasn’t bragging. She was hopeful, you know? ’Cause that’s what little girls do.”
“Layla and I are friends—we’re not dating,” I hear myself blurt out because I’m not sure what else to say.
We’re . . .
She’s . . .
“She’s from out of state.”
Skylar nods as if she already knew this information. “Ahh. I see.”
“It would never work.” I have no idea why I’m telling this woman this information, guilt immediately taking root in my gut.
Her gaze slides toward the living room, to Layla tucked into my sweatshirt like she’s always belonged in it. “I’m sure it will be fine. Everything has a way of working out the way it’s supposed to.”
“Right.” The word tastes like acid on my tongue.
“Obviously she adores Layla,” Skylar adds. “I’m sorry I won’t get to know her better if she’s leaving soon—I’m sure a little chat between the three of you at bedtime will do the trick.” She exhales. “Well. I’ll get out of your hair. And hey, if you need a friendly adult to run interception on a very enthusiastic nine-year-old? I’m a text away.”
Robotically I nod.
The door hushes shut behind her. I stand there a beat. Do the death march to the living room. Drop onto the edge of the couch, leave a polite inch of space, try to breathe past the rancid taste in my mouth.
Layla mutes the TV, eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”
“She brought cheesecake,” I say, because small talk is easier than the truth.
A tiny smile. “That woman is a saint.”
“Mm-hmm.” I stare at the coffee table blankly, trying to think of something intelligent to say, but the only words playing on a loop in my brain are Skylar’s. My tongue won’t shape words.
From the kitchen, Benny barrels into the room, walking too fast for someone balancing a mug filled with marshmallows. “Okay, important update!” She stops, scans our faces, and grins like she’s solved world peace. “Yes, yes, I know I said I was going to jump in the shower, but Madison told me Ian Faulkner is moving to Florida. Florida! Can you believe it?”
I have no idea who Ian Faulkner is. “And do we like Ian?”
Benny scrunches up her face. “Absolutely not.”
Layla laughs. “You’re adorable.”
I sniff the air. “You stink—go take your shower and get your jammies on.”
My daughter rolls her eyes, beseeching Layla. “Will you tuck me in tonight? Dad tells the same lame jokes.”