“Yeahhh.” She pouts. “Do Ihaveto go?”
“Yes, Kit. No whining about this. We already had that conversation.”
“But what about the egg?”
“What about it?”
“I should get one more look before it’s gone for good. Just a quick one? I just wanna see it one more time before it’s stuffed behind glass forever.”
“You had your look. We’re not pulling it out again,” I say firmly. “And don’t ask to go to New York. It’s no place for you.”
Her pout could turn July into January.
With Cleo’s permission, I let Kit have her final look yesterday. Just once.
Kit spent ten solid minutes staring at that thing, mesmerized by its glitter and vibrant colors. Me, I’ll be glad if I never lay eyes on that cursed motherfucker again.
Cleo walks into the kitchen then, her sketch pad tucked under her arm, and sniffs. “Smells good in here.”
“Cleo!” Kit twists and offers her an orange slice. “Please tell Dad I can go to New York with you guys.”
Cleo hmms as she accepts the fruit and pops it into her mouth. I don’t have to glance at her to know she hasn’t looked at me once.
“Why does he say you can’t go?”
“Because it’s too ‘dangerous’ or something. Whatevs.” She tosses her head back with a haughty look.
She folds her arms and scowls at me like Cleo’s been giving her lessons.
I turn around, my back against the counter, just in time to see Cleo’s face tighten.
You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.
Kit’s caught me a couple times and asked what’s wrong. Don’t even know how to go there, so I don’t.
Clee wanted more, and I settled for less.
What else is there to say? That’s the long and short and ugly. TMI for a little girl.
I saved us all by shooting her down, but I know she doesn’t see it that way—and damn, the longer this awkward song and dance continues, the harder I second-guess.
Fuck that.
Even the way she stands around me says she’s fuming. Or hurt.
All straight, long legs and a stiff back. Her jaw pointed, head up.
A damnable reminder how easy it would be to reclaim her lips if I truly had a death wish.
Even when she’s hard, she’s still soft.
It kills me.
I curl my fingers into fists and will myself back to sanity.
“Tell you what, Kit,” I say, trying to breathe in this funeral atmosphere. “I’ll let you say goodbye to the egg one more time before you head out. How’s that?” I look at Cleo. She finally glances at me, her eyes iced over. “Assuming you’re cool with that?”
She shrugs and looks away, tucking a strand of hair back behind Kit’s ear. The casual affection between them twists the knife buried in my guts.
