Her lips twitch, eyes darting between me and the aisle behind. “Where are you taking her?” Fear limns her words.
“Might grab some lunch after this. Why?”
Her mouth moves, yet she appears to stumble over what to say next. “I’ve got you on video.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ll call for security.”
“Please,” I drawl, mustering as much sarcasm as I can. “Do it.”
I know what she assumes. What she thinks she does by recording me. And as noble as the cause is, she’s so fucking wrong it’s disappointing.
“People who steal children don’t look like me,” I tell her as she adjusts the phone to keep it trained on my face, gaze darting feverishly around for a staff member. “They look like you. Him.” I point to an onlooker, clean-cut and wearing nondescript khaki shorts and a T-shirt. “They look like grandmas and grandpas. Sometimes they’re teenagers.” I lean in. “Other kids, promised a stack of cash if they do a little favor.” I snort, edging back while I assess her, head to toe. “If you want to help, then start thinking like a criminal, not some brainwashed Karen who gets her fork wet watching Dateline.”
She splutters, searching for a comeback, when Molly darts back into the main aisle. “Found one, Daddy.”
“Perfect, baby.” I turn toward my daughter. “Let’s go find you those clothes now.”
I don’t hold it against the woman; she thought she did the right thing. I hold it against the sheltered world they live in, so directed by media and corrupt politicians that they can’t see the ugly truth residing right beneath their noses.
It’s never who you expect. It’s who you know.Why does that feel so pertinent to Freckles?
“How about this one?” I pull a plaid shirt off a rack—blue, white, and gray.
Molly’s face lights up. “Just like you wear.”
“Yeah. Just like me.”
She snatches it from my hands, hugging it to her chest with the oversized rabbit she picked, and dashes across to the section with the T-shirts. “Can I have this one?” She gestures to a bright red one with a picture of a muscle car.
“Sure.”
“And this?” A sweater with a forest-style logo on the breast.
“Why not?”
I trail my daughter as she ducks through racks taller than her and picks out yellows, oranges, and a pair of stonewash jeans to try on.
“Are you sure you don’t want any dresses?”
She shrugs. “Maybe one.”
So we trek back to the land of vomited rainbows and add a summery day dress—embroidered flowers on the hem and puffy wide straps—to the pile.
The cashier looks at me with slight confusion as she scans the haul and then smiles at Molly. “Are these for your brother?”
“No, ma’am.”
She hesitates a split-second before resuming her work. “They’re all for you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“You do know that these are boys’ jeans, honey?” Her gaze flickers to me.
“I know.” Even more misconception—that because I’m a rough-looking asshole I don’t know how to shop for my daughter. “We’ll grab a couple of bags, thanks.”
The cashier nods and finishes the transaction. Her gaze moves to Molly again when she hands the bunny over. “I think it’s wonderful,” she tells my daughter. “Why should the boys get all the neat stuff, right?”
