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"Why?" she continues.
The truth—there are so many reasons. Dings on doors, awkward conversations, and so on. "I don't really know," I tell her.
"My uncle Brody does the same thing. It's because he's in love with his truck and doesn't want anyone to park too close."
"Is that his truck down by my Jeep?" I ask her, getting ready to rush Parker's little legs to move faster so I can avoid another encounter with that beast.
"Yup, it is," she says, twisting her head to look over her shoulder. "See, he's right behind us."
I'm not going to turn around and purposely make eye contact. That will lead to further questioning.
"So, if you're a mom of another kid in this school, why are you taking Parker somewhere and not your so-called daughter?" There it is: the question that will force me to stop and explain why it looks like I'm kidnapping his niece.
"My daughter went home with a friend, and I offered to bring Parker home," I shout back without turning around.
"You don't really have a daughter," Parker mutters through her pressed lips.
"Shh," I hush her.
"But, why did you lie?" she presses.
Her question stirs in my head for a minute, and I honestly can't remember the reason the lie shot out of my mouth, but I'm sure it had something to do with the fact that I didn't want him to figure out who I was. I'm guessing I'm out of luck there, though.
"Okay, stop," Brody says, more abruptly this time. "Brett didn't tell me anyone else was bringing her home. I need to know who you really are before my niece gets into your car."
Parker looks up at me as if she's telling me to do the right thing. I suppose I can understand his concern, a little. I stop walking and turn around, crossing my arms over my chest in defense mode. "I told you who I am. I'm Journey Milan."
"How do you know my brother, Brett?" he asks.
I stare at him for a long minute, wondering if he truly believes that I'm not the Journey he used to know … because he definitely knew me. My hair was, in fact, red back in the day, and now it's dark. Plus, I'm no longer wearing glasses, nor am I fifteen.
"I thought your last name was Quinn?" Parker asks me.
I've been outed … by a seven-year-old.
"It was," I tell her. "It's a long story."
"Oh," Parker says, scratching at the side of her face with confusion.
"Journey Quinn," Brody says. "Now, I know that name well. But hey, no judgment on the new last name and no wedding band. I'm not one to talk."
"Speaking of which, where is your daughter?" I try to change the subject.
"Oh, I knew I forgot something," he says, spinning around dramatically. "She was in the truck about two minutes before you turned around. You're very perceptive, I see. Maybe I should bring Parker home."
"Brody Pearson. Boy, do I remember you," I tell him, trying my best to change this little mind game around. "Always in trouble. Never at family events for reasons no one truly knows, but I know."
"What are you talking about?" he presses.
Our families grew up together. Our dads have been doing business since before we were born. We would see each other a few times throughout the year, but since Brody is a few years older, he was often missing from social events because he had a "game" or "practice" to attend. However, I know the truth. Brett made mention of his behavior issues when we were younger. Brody was a troublemaker, and his parents were often afraid
to bring him to social events. "Never mind," I tell him, wanting to end this rendezvous.
"Is this because I wasn't at your dad's funeral?"
My eyes widen at his forward question. "Wow, way to be blunt there."
Brody holds his hands up. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just said that. I—I couldn't be at the funeral because I had to drive Hannah to Connecticut, so her wonderful mother could take her for the long weekend."
