My parents.
Some guy out there who probably thinks he’s engaged to me.
My future and how I’m going to make it work.
How the heck I’m going to learn how to cook something.
The burned shirt I forgot in the laundry room that I know is going to be found.
Luke.CHAPTER 7LukeAfter one and a half days with Feeney, I’ve decided there are several things I like and dislike about her, and some of them do double duty.
I like that Shade seems to like her. He doesn’t take to everyone, and definitely not so naturally. I like how she tries to do things even though she knows she’s going to be bad at them. She doesn’t seem to mind humiliating herself, and I guess she’s kind of funny. At least, I think so, but it’s hard to say because I haven’t spent enough time with her. She plays with Shade, and I know that because I walked in on them in the backyard yesterday. Shade was worn-out last night and fell asleep two hours earlier than normal, so Feeney must be doing something right. I also like that she’s naturally caring. She’s worried about me feeding my son junk food, which is sweet. I like how good she smells, and I like that she’s pretty.
But, I also dislike how she smells good and is pretty. I dislike the fact that I’ve noticed both of those things. I dislike that I thought about her at work today in odd moments that caught me off-guard, and I dislike having her in my head, but I don’t think I’m being dishonorable to Britt’s memory. I already know nothing can change those memories or even come close to touching them. They’re locked away inside me like a vault to a treasure. I dislike that by trying hard, Feeney nearly burned down the house again. I found one of my dress shirts with a huge burn mark in the shape of an iron. I don’t like that I have a list of likes at all.
When I get home from work, I’m thankful to see the house still standing because it means Feeney didn’t manage to light it on fire today. Small mercies. That’s what life’s about. Shade obviously heard the front door open because he comes running to give me a big hug. I scoop him clean off the floor, noting how heavy he’s getting. He is already four, and sometimes it literally feels like I blinked, and all those years went by since he was a baby. It still feels like we just walked in the front door with him for the first time. I know every parent says this, but some moments, I feel like it’s true. There are other moments when I feel like life is passing so slowly, and I’m a thousand years old. Mummified and still alive. Wouldn’t that make an awesomely gruesome horror movie?
“Dad?” Shade looks up at me the second I put him down. He looks like he’s about to burst.
“Yes?”
“Do you know why flies stink so bad?”
What a strange question. I have an inkling, but I feign ignorance. “I really don’t know.”
“It’s because they have a radical butt hole.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s because they eat poop!” Feeney rounds the bend. She’s flushed, and her cheeks are scarlet—partly from exertion, partly due to embarrassment. She sweeps her hair back from her forehead with the back of her arm, and I notice it’s slightly damp. I can only imagine what she was just doing.
I can imagine a few other things too. Feeney with damp skin, damp hair…damp…
Don’t go there. Ever. Another thing to add to the dislikes list. The random thoughts I have that don’t belong in my head and which, for the life of me, I can’t control. They’re all related to her.
“It’s not because they eat poop!” Shade turns to me for confirmation. “Do they eat poop?”
“They certainly do!” Feeney argues. “But that’s good. Because they help break down waste. They also eat garbage and dead…uh…never mind.”
“Ewwww!” Shade squeals.
“Nature lesson for today…” Feeney shrugs. “I’m making something for dinner. Don’t come into the kitchen. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Am I going to be poisoned by it?” I sniff the air, but I smell nothing—no scent of food, and no choking smoke either.
“No!” Feeney scoffs. “And I’m not cooking it, so don’t even make a smart joke about me burning it.”
“Do you burn everything or just food and shirts?”
Her cheeks flush an even brighter red while her eyes are the craziest shade of green I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know eyes like hers existed. Maybe they’re color contacts. They’re that vibrant. They light up and glow when she’s annoyed, like now, and I decide that no, they can’t be contacts because I don’t think they change color like that.
“I’m making a salad. Surprise ruined,” she says acerbically. “And I’m sorry about the shirt. Take it out of my pay.”