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“It can be pink.” Then, I realized whom I was talking to—Star’s daughter. “How much pink? Give me a percentage here.”
“Ninety-nine percent pink.”
“That’s a lot of pink. Don’t you think you’ll get pink fatigue?”
“No such thing.”
“I disagree. If you have ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, do you think you’d like it by dinnertime?”
“No one does that, Conor, silly.”
“I’ve done it. So I know the answer.”
She squinted at me. “Which ice cream meal is best?”
“Breakfast, because by dinner time, you’re sick of a good thing. Plus, it feels naughty so it tastes better.”
Kat pondered that as we made it to the garage.
When we were in my Mini Cooper, she queried, “How much pink wouldn’t be pink fatigue?”
As I turned onto the road, I calculated, “Seventy percent.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s more than half, so that appeases your pink-loving soul, but there’s thirty percent that lets you go wild and keeps the pink fresh. That’s a good amount.”
“I’ll think about it,” was the only confirmation I got.
This kid, I swear. By nurture alone, Star had crafted her mini-me.
“Can I have a coat rack tree too?”
My heart literally pinged in my chest. “Kat, it isn’t a coat rack.”
“Sure it is. We put our coats on it, don’t we?”
“Yes, but we’re not supposed to.”
“Why do I put my coat on it then?”
“Why do you do cartwheels inside the house? Tornado Tina.”
She giggled at the nickname but then, her laughter faded. “Can I have a coat rack tree so that I don’t have to spoil your tree?”
I shot her a grin. “Sure you can. I’m surprised I didn’t think of that myself.”
Unless…
She beamed a smile at me.
Nah.
I hadn’t just been…
No.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You knew the tree wasn’t a coat rack.”
