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“I can’t lose my kids to that woman,” I say.
“Do you think that you have a chance if your lie comes to life and you end up in jail?”
“No one will ever know.”
“I’ll know,” she growls. “I’m not an actress.”
I take a deep breath. I could stand here and argue all damn day, but Madison doesn’t seem like the type that can be convinced to alter her convictions, so it would just be a waste of time.
“We haven’t eaten,” I grumble. “Let’s grab some lunch.”
She huffs with annoyance as she walks around to the passenger side of the rented SUV, refusing to look at me when I open the door for her.
“Any requests?” I ask after walking around to my side and climbing inside.
“I don’t care,” she mutters. As I leave the parking garage, I wonder if her response is the same kind that Emily’s always was. My ex would say she didn’t care then complain the entire time she didn’t like what I picked. I don’t know why she thought I was a mind reader instead of just telling me what she wanted.
Madison doesn’t complain when I circle the block of my favorite deli to find a parking spot.
She climbs out of the SUV before I can come around to open her door, and I know she’s doing it because of how annoyed she is.
“This is the perfect time,” I tell her as I rush to open the door to the restaurant before she can grab the handle.
She glares at me but steps to the side so it doesn’t hit her in the face.
“We’re after the lunch rush but before the dinner rush.”
I try not to think about whether or not the boys will actually be fed while they’re with Emily as the hostess guides us to a table. They’re old enough to tell her what they want, and since she’s more prone to give anything and everything to avoid their complaints, I know if they ask for food, they’ll be fed.
“Wow,” Madison says as she lifts her chin, that perfect little nose of her flexing as she breathes in. “I want whatever that is.”
I don’t even try to fight the smile that pulls up the corners of my mouth. Emily hated this place. Processed meats and full fat cheeses weren’t her thing,yet I’m practically salivating thinking about the naan bread I’m going to eat with the hummus platter.
“The entire menu then?” I ask.
She opens one eye to glare at me, frowning as if just speaking has ruined her whole dining experience. I snap my mouth closed with her warning, content to just listen to the excitement in her rumblings for food.
Maybe sustenance is the way to get her into a more manageable mood. Before the coffee, her attitude was monstrous. After taking a sip, she became much more amenable.
Our waitress heads over, not getting an ounce of attitude from Madison for having her air sniffing interrupted. I watch her interact with the woman, speaking animatedly about flavored teas, and realize two things very quickly. Her Southern charm is positively adorable, and I may possibly be the only person who she hates.
The second the waitress is done taking our order, the smile slides from her pretty face.
“Why do you hate me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
If it’s something I can fix, then I’ll do it. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.
Instead of answering, her frown deepens. “I don’t hate you.”
As much as I want to, I don’t argue with her.
Maybe hate is too strong of a word. Maybe it carries with it too much attention or too much commitment. Maybe she doesn’t hate me. Maybe she doesn’t think of me at all.
Wouldn’t it be easier if I were capable of the same thing?
Drinks are delivered and somehow Madison has ended up with a flight of flavored teas.
“Is that lemon blueberry?” I guess because of the fresh fruit floating in it.
