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When he steps back down the ladder, I get a look at him in the oversized plaid shirt, with his bouncing curls streaked with paint, and I can sort of understand why Luke looks like he might murder me.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I was planning on cleaning all of this up before you got back.”
“Don’t. Call. Me that,” he says through gritted teeth. “C’mon, Scout. Let’s get you into the tub. Only way we’re getting the paint out of your hair is with shampoo and a brush.”
Scout’s groan is a mini version of Luke’s, and I hold back a laugh for fear of getting into worse trouble. But, seriously. This guy is the father of a small child—surely he understands that it’s a kid’s job to tear through life making messes.
With another glare thrown my way, Luke takes his son by the hand and guides him into the house, the door slamming behind them. I’m left to survey what looks like a tornado blew through the back porch. Snack wrappers strewn around, remnants of food on the floor, paint on every surface, and wooden blocks, improvised games, and pots and pans as far as the eye can see.
After a full afternoon with a four-year-old, I am worn out.
I hear the water running in the bathroom, so I give myself a tiny breather, grabbing a bag of Goldfish crackers and putting my feet up. I’m sure Luke will be back in a few minutes to tell me all the things I’ve done wrong. Can’t wait.
CHAPTER 11
Luke
Scout bunches up his pillow and props his head against it, but otherwise, his body is flat on the bed. I think of it as his ready position. Teeth brushed, water sipped, wet hair combed. He could fall asleep in a matter of seconds, or maybe he’ll have enough endurance to get through one bedtime story. Either way, his eyelids droop, and I know he’ll be dreaming shortly.
He was too tired to protest a thorough bath, where I shampooed the paint from his hair and scrubbed every bit of dirt from beneath his nails. He played with a family of rubber ducks that sat on a floating lily pad and sang a song I hadn’t heard before, something about peas in a peapod growing until the pod popped.
After wrapping him in a towel and shuttling him to his room, I picked out some T. rex pajamas, and he dutifully put them on without looking at any of the other pairs in the drawer or debating. Then he threw back the covers and squirmed into bed, arranging his collection of stuffed otters around him like a protective security team.
“Daddy, can Callie come babysit me again?”
I cringe at the question. I wasn’t counting on Scout spending this much time with Callie. It already feels complicated.
“Maybe,” I say, figuring that will end the discussion.
“When? Can she pick me up from school so she can meet my friends?”
I’m glad the lights are out so he can’t see the shock on my face. I’ve had to ask various friends and employees to pinch hit and pick Scout up when I’ve been stuck at the ranch, but he’s never asked for any of them by name. He’s never seemed excited to see them. He’s never…seemed quite as animated as he does tonight, telling me about all the things he and Callie did this afternoon. Breaking all of my rules, no doubt, but still. The kid seems lighter, happier after just one afternoon with her.
I have to admit I know the feeling. And it still bothers me to have him welcome her into his life if she’s not going to stay.
“You liked her? She made good mudpies?” And a small part of my fastidious side dies a little bit.
“We didn’t do that. She didn’t want you to get mad.”
Well, at least that’s something. I didn’t peg her for having that kind of self-restraint, and from what I saw of the patio and my kitchen before I hustled Scout up here, she doesn’t hold back much. I don’t think my kitchen has seen that much action since the garbage disposal backed up and spewed chopped-up Thanksgiving food all over the counters and floor.
“So what did you do? A lot of painting, from the looks of things.”
I inhale and count to five before letting out the breath. I’m still steamed that she decided that having Scout use fingerpaints—wearing my favorite work shirt, no less—was the best way to keep him clean and out of trouble.
“I painted ten pictures. They’re hanging up outside. Callie made an art gallery.”
I must have missed that amid the mess of paint and upturned bins of toys and all the cooking supplies scattered around the patio.
“I didn’t see that.”
“Go look!” Scout sits up in bed, and in another second, he’ll be running down the hallway if I don’t stop him. I absorb his movements into a bear hug and lay him back on the bed.
“I’ll look as soon as you’re asleep, promise.”
Scout returns to the ready position, and I lean toward the stack of books on his bedside table to choose something to read. His eyes are closed again, and I’m certain he’ll fall asleep before I finish reading. “Daddy, what does it mean that Callie is your special friend?” he asks, knocking down the last of my defenses.
I hate lying to my son, but kids have a flexible relationship with play and reality, so maybe there’s a way to concoct a story that makes enough sense to Scout without an outright lie.
