“I…” The guppy returns. “She…”
I. Uh. Der.
The neighbor girl nods, victorious. “Just like I said. You can’t even say the words.”
“You know what? The last thing I need is to come home and find you in my kitchen, and then have you give me relationship advice.” It’s like taking advice from a matchmaker who’s single. This kid is barely out of middle school and can’t even drive a damn car.
She’s fiddling with her phone again and I’m convinced she’s searching for more relationship shit. “Knock it off, would you?”
Molly rolls her eyes, exhausted by me. “I’m setting a timer for the cookies, chill.”
Chill.
I can do that. Sure. Easy.
Closing the gap between myself and Chewy, I pry the gnawed apple from his mouth and pull a face; it’s mangled and slimy, and I toss it in the trash. Wash my hands to busy myself, back turned toward the interloping teen.
She’s tapping her foot, insolent little shit.
“Now what?” Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I face her. “What?”
“What’s the one thing Chandler wants?”
Pfft, that’s easy. “To make it on her own and become a publicist.” My body relaxes because I got an answer right.
“So, how can you help her with that?”
“With what? Like, finding her a job?”
“Yeah—you must know people. You’re famous.”
I stand a bit taller; she’s right, I am famous, and yeah, I do know people. I rack my brain, searching for names of people in the spotlight who might be hiring PR representation. Or perhaps someone with a wife who needs event planning. Marketing. Shit, the possibilities are endless.
“You don’t think that’s overstepping a bit?”
“It proves you care.” Molly shrugs. “That’s like, better than flowers.” She gives me a once-over, starting at my feet. “On second thought, you should always still get a woman flowers and gifts and stuff.”
I find myself nodding.
Could Molly be right? Will Chandler see my using connections as a way of showing I care? She works for her parents, so in a way she’s cool accepting nepotism, right? And she did admit that no places worth working for are hiring—her dream jobs have no vacancies.
“You’re overthinking it,” the teenager snaps, checking the cookies through the little square window of the oven.
“That’s what I do—overthink shit.” I pause, shaking my head. “And why the hell am I discussing any of this with you? You’re barely in high school.”
“I have my temporary license.”
“As if that proves how mature you are,” I practically sneer.
“Whatever, I’m not the one with girl problems.”
“I don’t have girl problems!” Why am I yelling?
“Not yet you don’t. She still thinks you’re great.”
“So what’s got to change exactly?” I still don’t get it and, god in heaven, I’m asking a teenager to explain it for me.
“First of all, you’re kind of an assbag.”
“Assbag?” Wow. That’s an insult I haven’t heard hurled in my direction, especially not from a child—so I add it to my memory bank. Suitably impressed, I approve. “Fair enough. Go on.”
“That’s how you are, and she seems to like it—no idea why—but unless you show a different side to yourself, that angry act is going to get tired super soon.”
Super soon. “Is that teenage girl speak for ‘real fast’?”
“Duh.”
I’m honestly going to strangle this kid.
“Like—you’re gonna have to dig down deep and pull out some emotions.”
“I pull out emotions.”
“Pissed off is not an emotion. It’s a byproduct of fear. Or in your case, probably anxiety—maybe you’re frustrated with yourself? Jealous of your brother and sister? Embarrassed you can’t express yourself, embarrassed when you do? I don’t know, pick your poison.”
Is this kid for real?
My eyes narrow. “Are you by any chance going into psychology when you get to college?”
One of her shoulders rises and falls in a shrug. “Nah, I’m going to major in finance.”
“Stop it, you are not. You really have knack for this,” I admit, as much as I hate to do so. Molly is the sort who has an ego about these things; I can tell.
“Are you giving me an actual compliment, Mr. Wallace?” Molly appears stunned—and happy, practically glowing.
Why is it so hard for her to believe I’d say something nice? I’m not a monster. “Hey! What did I tell you about the Mr. Wallace nonsense?”
Another shrug. “I’m being polite to my elders.”
“Har har.” I level her with a stare. “So you really think I need to be like…nice?”
This earns me a laugh from the teenager, who’s now taken to pacing back and forth in front of the oven, most likely so the cookies don’t burn.
“You can’t even say the word without cringing. Look at you—you look constipated.”
“Fine. You’re right—I can’t force myself to be something I’m not.”
“Why are you like that? I mean, it’s not like your parents are dicks.”
The mouth on this kid!
“How would you know my parents weren’t dicks to me growing up?”
“Um, hello—I’ve seen them coming and going. The last time your folks were here, I helped your mom bring in the blanket the book club had made you. You know, the one with the book covers on it.” Her sly little grin is telling; she’s making fun of me without actually making fun of me.