She typed.
Meredith:Not worth it. Besides, not his fault.
Before she could press send, the phone rang in her hands.
“A glitter bomb,” Brooke said as she answered.
“What?”
“Mail him a glitter bomb. He opens the package. Glitter explodes. He’ll look like Tinkerbelle for the rest of his life.”
Meredith put the car in gear, laughing.
“He’ll never be free,” Brooke continued. “I mean it. Glitter is the herpes of the arts-and-crafts world. An ounce of glitter detonated in his living room would contaminate every corner of his puny, fish-mouthed existence.”
“Stop,” she begged, wiping her eyes. “Really, he’s not the one I blame.”
Brooke was silent for a moment. “Leona.” It wasn’t a question.
“You guessed it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Grab Oscar, bundle up, and meet me at the field.”
THE MCCORMICKS LIVEDnear the corner of Dean and St. Landry, right across from the Mickey Shunick Memorial and the electrical substation. The view of the substation sucked, but Meredith ignored it and always focused on the memorial instead. The mounted, white bike made a ghostly homage to the brave young woman who’d been attacked on her ride home. She’d fought that serial-killer bastard with his own knife — a five-foot-three girl macing and cutting a monster.
Even though she lost her life, the nationwide search for Mickey led to the monster’s arrest. And every time Meredith passed the white bicycle — whether she was pushing Oscar’s stroller or taking a walk by herself to get away from the McCormicks for five minutes — she felt stronger for its presence, as though Mickey Shunick’s fighting spirit blessed the place.
“Boys!” Oscar cheered from his stroller. They passed the substation and were directly behind UL’s Horticulture Center. Across the street lay one of the university’s intramural fields and, as usual on most afternoons, a group of international students was deep in a game of cricket. Brooke had parked her dad’s white Toyota truck in the far corner of the field, and she sat waiting for them on the open tailgate.
Just as Meredith was about to complain that it was too cold to sit in the bed of a truck, Brooke lifted a CC’s to-go cup in greeting.
“Is that a King Cake Latte?” Meredith asked, breathless.
Her best friend nodded. “You know it.”
Meredith grabbed the cup with both hands and inhaled the warm, sugary promise with its hints of cinnamon. “You’re a saint. If I ever have another kid, I’m naming her — or him — after you.”
Brooke glared at her cock-eyed. “And who will be fathering this kid? Because I like the naming idea, but I don’t want to encourage this line of thinking.”
Taking a sip of the liquid heaven, Meredith pushed the question aside. It was too depressing to consider, and she didn’t like to talk about Jamie’s favorite pastime. Brooke was right. Even though she wanted more kids at some point in her life, she did not want them with Jamie McCormick.
Which should have been excellent motivation to stand firm each time she tried to shut him down. But Jamie McCormick was not a big fan of“no.”
“Boys!” Oscar yelled again, pointing to the cricket players and kicking his chubby legs against the stroller. “Boys playing.”
“That’s right, baby,” Meredith said, reaching down and tugging the knit beanie over his ears. Tufts of his golden curls flattened against his forehead. “The boys are playing cricket.”
“Boys playing cweaket.” Oscar watched starry-eyed as the bowler let the ball go, bouncing it down the pitch where it connected with the batsman’s paddle. “Ya-a-ay!”
Meredith and Brooke laughed as Oscar cheered. He tracked the ball as it cleared the boundary, earning the team six runs. “Cweaket!”
“Wow, he’s good,” Brooke murmured, her eyes on the tall batsman with café au lait skin. Oscar wasn’t the only one who liked watching theboysplay cricket.
Meredith’s butt was cold against the tailgate; she didn’t have a job, and Jamie would be back in a few weeks. But she also had a best friend who had brought her a King Cake latte, a son who would be happy watching a cricket match for another hour, and a plan to build a better life for herself.
