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“Well, Charlotte,” he says, his voice carrying a subtle note of finality, “I trust you and your brother will enjoy your afternoon off.” Handing over the bag of treats, he leaves his own cake pop nestled inside. “Until next week,” he adds, dipping his head in a gesture of farewell.
As he turns to leave, a sense of expectancy hangs in the air. I watch as he strides across the parking lot, heading toward the sleek, dark sports car. When he reaches the car, he taps on the window before bending down, his actions leaving me with more questions than answers.
I have no idea how to take our entire exchange, only that he gives me butterflies in my stomach. It’s enough of a warning to keep my curiosity about Desmond Black away.
Butterflies aren’t for love. They are a red flag, and it’s one I plan to listen to.
“Lottie.” Milo bounces over to me. “Mr. Benson said we can keep the kitten! Do you know he has three cats? Three!”
“Well then, we better get home and make sure he has everything he needs.” I peel my eyes away from Desmond and the black car, pushing my curiosity away. It’s odd that he went over to talk to the driver he doesn’t know…or does he?
After all, it is a small town, and everyone knows everyone in a small town.
Four
No one preparesyou for the endless expanse of winter days, the weight of inescapable decisions, or the journey of nurturing a soul you didn’t bring into the world. As October inches toward November, the struggle to emerge from slumber grows increasingly arduous. Rising before the sun feels inherently unnatural, but bound by our internal rhythms, we awaken, assuming that the night has given us some measure of rest.
Each day unfolds as a series of choices that shape our path. We elect to disentangle ourselves from the cocoon of blankets, sit up, and rub the sleep from our eyes with a yawn that bridges the worlds of slumber and wakefulness. Often, my early morning thoughts revolve around the prospect of an afternoon nap. I can almost sense the softness of the blanket that would envelop me as I nestle amid a mountain of pillows.
There are never enough pillows.
Some days, like today, I don’t get to nap like I want because my little brother found a crazed kitten who believes that any human is his personal entertainer for the day. So, amongst the laundry, the dishes, and even making the beds, that kitten chooses violence.
Laundry is a mountain, and Albert decided it was his to climb and attack. The dishes? He assaulted the bubbles, only to fall into the sink after climbing my leg when I refused to pick him up. And the bed? Well, I lost him under the sheets multiple times.
Today was eventful, and to say I will start my shift at the diner exhausted is an understatement.
“Did you know,” Milo says from our little kitchen table, and I know whatever he is about to dish out will end up wrapped in insanity that I will secretly love, “that you probably eat bugs in your sleep?”
I was not prepared.
Letting my long, wet hair shield my face while I flip a burger, I think of the best response I can at the moment. “Protein?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Milo agrees without skipping a beat, and I finally peek over my shoulder at him. He drops his pencil onto his papers, signaling he finished his homework. His eyes take on a faraway look, one I know all too well. He is dredging up strange facts from some corner of his brain I’ll never be able to recover from. “If we eat bugs in our sleep and it is protein, then why must I eat that burger?”
Biting my lip, I make up his crabby patty and set it before him on the two-seater table. “Because bugs aren’t a sufficient source of protein for growing boys.” Considering I put together the burger at his request, he better eat it. I’m no chef, but I get by, and I like to think my cooking is edible, even though Sal won’t ever hire me as a cook. I know my limits.
Luckily, Tatum knocks on the door, heralding her arrival, and I don’t have to bargain with Milo about nutrition. Her own crabby patty awaits her on the table. She is a worse cook than I am.
“Hey!” she shouts from the entryway, her heavy footsteps thwacking on the hardwood floors as she makes her way back to us in the kitchen.
Milo gives me one look—the kind only a child can give where he knows how the night will go, and it’s him babysitting my friend.
Ignoring him, I walk across the kitchen and give her a quick hug before steering her toward the table. “Eat.”
“Yes, Mom.” Tatum slumps in the chair. Her long nails are already gripping the burger in question, and her red lips bite into a quarter of it. A splat of ketchup plops on the plate, but Tate doesn’t even care. She’s far too invested in eating.
Again, Milo looks at me while pushing his glasses up his nose, then he gathers all his homework papers and shoves them into his folder.
Really, why do third graders need homework? These kids are eight and nine. Is it even necessary? They are at school all day. Leave it there. Luckily, Milo enjoys it. It doesn’t change how I feel about homework, though, and I’ll mention it at the next parent-teacher conference.
“Oh.” Tatum places her burger down and turns toward me. “Fair warning, Sal is trying this whole BYOB thing again.”
“Oh, on a Monday?” I whine. “Sal knows this is going to fail. It does whenever the night ends with the local police department breaking up a fight. Tell me he isn’t doing this tonight.” I glance at the clock. It’s nearly time for me to leave.
Tatum wrinkles up her pale face. Her bright red hair sits in a topknot on her head. “Can’t do that.” She takes a huge bite of her burger, nearly getting ketchup on her shirt that belongs to another era. Folding her legs under her, she perches on my kitchen chair and wipes her lips. “Stop staring at me like that,” she tells Milo.
“You’re like a caricature of a person,” Milo blurts out.
