Page 92 of Lucky 22

“How can I not?” I ask, hating that as soon as I raise myvoice even a tiny bit, I begin to panic. Like his dad is going to come throughthe door and tell me to be quiet.

“This is all temporary. I know it isn’t ideal, but we canget through it. He mentioned going fishing tomorrow, so you won’t have to dealwith him.”

Great. One day. Whoopee.

“Can’t you talk to him for me? Please?”

“It won’t make a difference. Trust me. You just need toignore the comments.”

“Fine.”

But it’s not.

The next day, I have the house to myself, which feels like asmall gift. Christian is at physical therapy, his mom is at work, and his dadis out on the lake somewhere with a fishing pole and a quiet determination. Oneundeniable bright spot is the view. His parents’ house sits right on the water,and the lake is stunning in the late-morning light.

I decide to treat myself to a sub from the local PublixThey’re famous for them. Everyone knows exactly what you mean when you say youwant a Pub sub. Back at the house, the day is too beautiful to ignore, so Isettle at the kitchen table with my lunch, the lake stretched out in front ofme. I’m starving, and the first bite of my turkey and cheese sub with extra subdressing is every bit as glorious as I hoped it would be.

And then I see him.

Mr. Lucas is walking up from the boat dock—back much earlierthan I expected.

Seriously? Already?

He walks in, fresh off the lake, and I can see that hehasn’t washed his hands. Side note about me, I’m a bit obsessive about germsand handwashing. I cannot eat anything unless I’ve properly sanitized my hands,and I do not share my food with others.

“How was the fishing?” I ask, hoping to have a pleasantconversation.

“Fine. What are you eating?”

“A turkey sub,” I answer.

“Is it good?”

“Yes, it’s a Pub sub, and it’s my favorite.”

All of a sudden, without asking, he grabs my sub with hisunwashed, fishy hands and takes a bite. We both stand there in silence as hechews.

Are you flipping kidding me right now?

“Yes, that’s good,” he says before putting it down, turningand walking away. I don’t think I let out a breath until I see him walk intohis bedroom and shut the door.

For a moment, I’m too stunned to even move. I’m not surewhether I want to scream or cry. Unfortunately, I have no choice. As calmly asI can, I wrap up my sandwich and throw it in the trash before tiptoeing up thestairs.

Something’s got to give.

Soon.

Again.

And thankfully, it does.

A week after the sandwich incident, I’m home alone againwith my father-in-law. I’m looking over a script for a single-episode spot I’llbe filming next week when my phone rings.

“Someone needs a secretary,” he mutters. “Five kids, and Inever heard a phone ring this much.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I grab my phone andhead upstairs to Christian’s and my bedroom. It’s Tracy. Things have been alittle cool between us since the night the Archers won the WorldSeries, and I lost the movie role, and every time she calls, I get a knot inthe pit of my stomach.

“Hey, Tracy. What’s up?”