“You…danced?”
She shook her head, looking annoyed. She put her hands near her face and made a disgusted sound.
“You’re dirty?” I tried, pretending like Edie hadn’t told me the night she’d babysat.
Talk, Luna. Talk. I’ll take anything, not just words. Not just gestures. Any. Fucking. Thing. Then maybe we both wouldn’t be so fucking lonely in that big penthouse.
“You met her when you were dirty? You had something on your hands? She helped you get it cleaned?”
She shook her head violently, her eyebrows diving down. She pointed at her open palm, then pinched her nose in a bad-smell gesture, her wide eyes begging me to get it.
Say it.
“She stinks? You stink? You had something on your hand? She gave you something smelly?”
The worst part of my week was the moment I saw Luna giving up on our conversation. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed, crossing her arms and looking out the window. Ignoring me.
We didn’t communicate for the rest of the drive until we got home and I asked her if she still wanted that churro. She ignored me for the millionth time that day, just as she did every day.
Nothing had changed.
Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.
Edie Van Der Zee was probably the whitest person I’d ever met. Fact.
I pondered this thought as she sat beside me, cooing over a dog who licked his balls while we were having a picnic in an Anaheim park, which was the last place anyone we knew would be. It was also where Disneyland was, where we’d taken Luna.
Luna was wearing Minnie Mouse ears that were too big and eating the sandwich Edie had made before we got out of the house. Peanut butter, jelly, and a slice of cheddar cheese in-between.
“Are you enjoying the view with your meal?” I snarled, sitting at the edge of our picnic table and not touching any of the food. I wasn’t particularly hungry, and not only because Miss Van Der Zee had invented the grossest sandwich known to man. I was also being a jealous asshole because Edie had managed to squeeze reactions and facial expressions I hadn’t known existed out of my daughter.
The girls ignored me, their huddled heads almost touching as Edie explained to Luna something about how the crust of the bread is obscenely underrated, and how she likes to toast it and nibble on it like a breadstick.
“Trent, are you a crust-eater?” Edie asked me, snapping her head up. I scratched at my stubbled jaw, avoiding a gross sexual innuendo in front of my daughter. Edie had behaved like the perfect nanny all through Disneyland. She’d basically ignored my ass, held Luna’s hand the whole time, and hadn’t even blinked when two young mothers hit on me while I’d bought us slushies.
“I don’t eat bread.”
“Why?”
“Don’t like it.”
“Who doesn’t like bread?”
“Someone who likes their six-pack.” Spoken like the true conceited bastard I was. Luna’s eyes flew to Edie in alarm, and she put her hand on my daughter’s shoulder.
“It’s okay, Luna. We don’t need a six-pack. Life is too short to deny yourself a peanut butter, jelly, and cheddar cheese party.”
It was one thing to be a jerk to Edie—an outsider, but I couldn’t do it to Luna. I bent down, tapping Luna’s Minnie Mouse ears. “Hey. Care to give your old man a bite?” The apology to her was in my voice.
She handed me her sandwich, and I took a small bite, watching her face melt into a smile. So fucking worth it.
By the time we got home, it was six. By the time Luna was bathed, fed, and I’d read her a story—Edie took the opportunity to gingerly make a beeline to one of the bathrooms and take a shower—it was after eight.
Then it was just us. Edie, me, and our sinister thoughts.
I figured walking into the bathroom while she showered was too creepy, especially considering I’d already indulged my stalking tendencies to borderline restraining order territory when it came to her.
Reluctantly, I waited for her on the couch, staring at an action movie without really watching it, wondering what the fuck I was doing.
I knew she was still coming after me.
Yet I couldn’t. Fucking. Stop.
Did I have feelings toward her? I didn’t think so. But I liked having her around. Liked how she put a smile on my daughter’s face. How her fuckable ass and lean surfer’s body felt against mine. How she responded to my touch the same way you respond to your first kiss. With uncontained rawness. She was clay. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with her. And I wanted to do everything. Down to the last, sordid fantasy that sat dormant in my head.
To validate my point, Edie padded out to the living room barefoot, her long yellow hair still wet and in knots. She was back in the clothes she’d worn to Disneyland—a pair of turquoise shorts and a rainbow-colored Rip Curl tank top. She looked like a gift waiting to be unwrapped, and I forgave myself for not confronting her about the stolen phone, trying to remind myself it shouldn’t matter. The only thing with compromising information on Jordan was my flash drive, and she would never get her hands on that. It was currently in my safe, locked away from her sticky fingers.