“No,” I reply, judging how do I explain to a ten-year-old that the man called my sperm donor didn’t even stick around long enough to find out if he was having a daughter or a junior. “My dad isn’t dead. He just wasn’t ready to be a father, so it was just my mother and me.”
“Ohhh.” Again, she nods. Then, “My dad’s a deadbeat.”
Oh for the love of… “Rose, I’m sure… uh, who told you that?”
“I heard Grammy and Uncle Asa talking about him after Mom died. Uncle Asa was saying we should let my dad know about Mom, and Grammy said she wasn’t telling that deadbeat anything.”
“Let me guess,” I drawled. “You were in your room, but you were listening.”
“Unhuh,” she agreed.
“Rose, I think these are things you should really talk to your grandmother and uncle about. And it might be a good idea if you stopped eavesdropping,” I suggested.
Rose shrugs, totally unrepentant. “How else am I supposed to find out anything?”
“You ask, and then they’ll tell you if they don’t want to answer. Maybe try that next time?”
“Okay,” she mutters, sounding less than thrilled about that option. She attacks the other half of her sandwich, peeling off the crust. After a moment, she tilts her head and treats me to another one of those looks that has me bracing for whatever’s going to come out of her mouth. “India, can I ask you a question then?”
We’re in school, but I don’t correct her. It’s just us two here, and this feels more like… family than student teacher.
“Of course.”
She hesitates and dips her chin. Even though the crust is gone, she starts tearing into the bread. “Why aren’t you sad anymore?” she whispers.
I don’t need to ask her to clarify; her meaning is crystal clear to me. That’s one of the things about being a member of our special club. We have our own language.
“It isn’t that I’m not sad anymore, Rose. I still miss her, and that doesn’t go away,” I murmur. “Moms are special and deserve to be missed. But I promise you not every day will be a sad one. Soon, when you think of your mom, instead of crying, you’ll laugh at something funny she said or you two did together. You know what my mom told me?”
She shakes her head so hard, the tail of her braid brushes her chest, staring at me as if my next words will be as momentous as Moses’ pronouncement from the mount. Or Taylor Swift’s next tweet.
“She said as long as I have my memories of us together, she will always be with me. So, Rose,” I reach forward, smooth a hand down her slightly crooked braid, and tug on the end, “You’ll never be alone because your mom is with you as long as you keep her here.” I cover my heart. “And here.” Then tap my temple.
Rose nods, her big gray eyes glistening with tears and her bottom lip trembling before she sank her teeth into it.
“Okay then—oof!”
Thin, fragile arms circle my neck and squeeze so hard they momentarily cut off my breath. And I’m okay with that. As her small body trembles and her tears dampen my shirt collar, I’m okay with that.
* * *
“You wantto explain why my niece is suddenly asking her grandmother and me about mastectomies, deadbeats, and heaven?”
I whip around, jerking my attention away from the car line and the last few parents picking up their kids to the growling, frowning giant behind me.
Dammit, he shouldn’t look so freaking… good. Yes, I’m a college graduate with a bachelor’s and master’s, and this is what he’s reduced me to. Good.
The man wears a scowl like it’s a fashion statement, and God, he’s doing for it what an Armani suit does for a model. Those heavy, dark brows drawn tightly together emphasize the beauty of his silver gaze and the autocratic arrogance of his nose. The pulled-down corners of his mouth only accentuate the wicked, erotic fullness of his lips. The clench of his jaw draws my eyes to the forbidding strength of it.
I want to yell, “For godsakes, man, smile!” But witnessing that sinful mouth curved in pleasure and those eyes bright with delight would be even more devastating to my respiratory and reproduction systems. And I’ve just started here at the elementary school. I can’t show up asthmatic and spontaneously pregnant.
Aaaaand I’m mentally babbling to myself. Jesus Christ.
“What are you doing here?” I demand. Seriously. My school should be a safe space.
“Picking up my niece,” he says. The “for real?” isn’t vocalized, but it’s heard.
It’s official. He’s killing my brain cells.