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Her smile got even bigger, like I’d just given her a gift of some kind. “Only my mom calls me that. But you can too.”
That cage I kept my heart locked in began to rattle. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Uh huh! Here you go, Uncle Owen.” She thrust the rest of the pastry squares at him and took off to go play with a group of kids.
“I see why she’s got you so whipped. That smile, man.”
“Tell me about it,” Owen grunted before taking a pull of his beer. “I don’t want to think about what it’ll be like when she starts to date. With her piece-of-shit father, I’ll be the one who has to meet those guys on the porch with a shotgun and a few words of warning.”
That statement got me wondering. What would I have been like if my own girl had lived long enough to start dating? I probably would have wanted to run the little pricks off too. But what I was most curious about was how a man could have a hand in making a child as sweet and delightful as Hazel, and not want to be a part of her life every second of every day.
I didn’t understand that, because there wasn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t give, anything I wouldn’t do, legal or not, for just another minute with my own daughter.
I’d seen how Hardin looked at her girl, and I knew she felt the same way.
On that thought, I shifted my attention from Hazel to Hardin. Our eyes locked for a second before she whipped her head back around, trying to hide that I’d caught her staring.
Even from across the backyard, I could see the red stain her cheeks, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how far down that blush went.
10
HARDIN
Iwas one sorry excuse for a PTA mom, that was for damn sure. I volunteered at Hazel’s school as often as I could because I wanted her to have these memories as she got older. I wanted her to be able to look back and remember seeing her mom around for special events. But dealing with most of the other moms was always a lesson in sanity and patience.
I had never been, and never would be, the mom who did my hair and makeup every morning and dressed in the most fashionable athleisurewear Lululemon or whoever they had to buy. I didn’t attend regular Pilates classes three times a week and yoga the remaining four days, then treat myself to a bubble tea afterward.
Most days I barely had time to remember to brush my hair before throwing it into a messy bun. Makeup wasn’t a consideration, and if I went somewhere other than workwithoutpizza stains on my clothes, I considered it a win. If I wasn’t working, I was focused on making sure my kid was growing up to be a functioning member of society. I barely had a free moment for myself most days.
I didn’t begrudge the mothers who worked at this kind of thing like it was their job. Or did the Pilates/yoga/bubble tea. In fact, I envied the hell out of them. If they loved their kids and wanted to be a big part of their lives, good for them. What I did have a problem with was the moms who looked down their noses at the rest of us for having jobs outside of their kids.
“Oh, thank god you’re here.” I looked up from where I was organizing the snacks and juice boxes as Kim, another one of the working moms I’d become friends with, came scuttling up, looking as harried as I did. “I was worried I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to during this gig.”
I let out a relieved breath at the sight of her. “Same. You’re a sight for sore eyes, lady.”
Kim and I had bonded over being the black sheep of the PTA. At Hazel’s school, there was a group of moms who ruled the roost, and collectively, they had the warmth of a Siberian winter. They weren’t welcoming to outsiders—aka moms who only had time to volunteer occasionally—and always managed to find something wrong with every tiny thing we did.
“Have you been shamed by the Triad yet?” That was what we called the clique of moms who ran the PTA. Krista, Kristy, and Christy, with a CH. That was literally how they introduced themselves. The three women who lorded their power over the rest of us lowly peons.
I was about to tell her “no” when the women in question waltzed up to our table. Krista, the leader of the bunch, placed a palm to her chest and pulled her face into a wince. “Oh, Hardin, darlin’, are these brownies sugar free?”
I looked down at the brownies I’d made the night before. All the other snacks I’d brought were store bought—chips and packaged sandwich crackers—but I’d taken the time to make the brownies myself. They were only slightly less popular than my blondies, and Hazel loved them, so when she’d made the request, I hadn’t been able to say no. I’d stayed up half the night baking.
My brows pinched together. “Uh, no.”
“Gluten free?”
“They’re homemade,” I said.
Krista drew her lips into a thin line. “So, no then?”
“No. They aren’t gluten or sugar free.”
Christy with a CH pulled in an unnecessarily hard inhale. “On no.” She held up one of the snack-sized bags of chips between her perfectly manicured fingers. “Store bought?”
I managed to keep from rolling my eyes, barely.
“We really try to keep the kids away from refined sugar and processed foods,” Kristy explained, talking down to me like I was a moron. “There are just so many studies that have shown the benefits of all organic, all natural, vegan, and gluten free foods on our little ones.”
