Page 7 of Giving Grace

I can’t think about the fact that out of nowhere, after months of playing dead, my dick decided to pop up and say hello.

Literally.

Jesus Christ.

I can’t think about it. I can’t because I have a four-year-old kid in my face and there’s egg custard on the ceiling.

That’s what the recipe we found on Google called it.

Egg Custard.

I called it the shit you dip your bread into when you make French toast but when I did, Molly wrinkled her nose at me and shook her head. “My Gran started a swear jar for my Grandpa when I was a baby,” she informs me. “Gran says there was enough to retire in it by the time I started walking.”

Not surprising. Grandpa is a Marine, after all. Instead of pointing out the obvious, I dig a hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a crumpled bill left over from last night’s pizza purchase. “Knock yourself out, kid,” I tell her, my face tipped up to look at the bright yellow goop splattered on the ceiling.

“For real?”

She chirps it at me and I look down to find her staring up at me, hands on her hips, a mixture of excitement and skepticism on her face.

“For real,” I say giving her a flat smile. God, she looks like her mother.

“You swear a lot.” She says it like she’s giving me insider information. Like maybe I’m not fully aware of all the shits and fucks and goddamns that come out of my mouth.

“I know that.” I try to sound irritable but it comes out sounding slightly wounded instead. “I’m retarded, not deaf.”

She cocks her head at me, the picture of four-year-old curiosity. “What’s retarded?”

Shit.

“Don’t say that,” I say without thinking. “It’s not a nice word—you could hurt someone’s feelings if you say it.”

“Oh.” Her forehead crumples a little. “Does it hurt your feelings when you say it?”

“No.”

It’s a lie. It hurts like a bitch. That’s why I say it. Because I’m the kind of asshole who gets a perverse kind of satisfaction out of reminding myself just how fucked up I really am.

She doesn’t look like she believes me but instead of pressing the issue, she shrugs. “So, if it’s a bad word you owe me more money, right?”

Laughing, I reach into my pocket and clean it out. “Here, this should buy me a couple hours,” I tell her, shoving what is the better part of a twenty-dollar bill into her tiny hands. “Now, go find something not dangerous to do while I figure out how to scrape this shit off the ceiling.”

An hour later I have the ceiling scraped clean and Molly installed at the countertop with a basket of washable markers, a rinsed out peanut butter jar, and a few sheets of blank paper stolen from Cap’n drafting table, when the back door opens up without warning and Patrick and Cari bustle in, cheeks flushed from the climb and the cold.

“They’re home,” Molly screeches, hopping down from her perch at the counter. Seconds later, she’s climbing Patrick like a tree. Finally settled on his hip, his big capable arm anchored under her rear to keep her from falling, she plants a hand on his shoulder and gives him a solemn look. “Ryan and I made French toast without you,” she tells him like she’s telling him he has six months to live.

“Is that right?” Patrick shoots me a quick, puzzled look before giving Molly his Boy Scout grin and I have the undeniable urge to knock those perfect, white teeth of his down his fucking nice guy throat.

Because I’m jealous.

Molly likes him and he obviously likes her and I’m jealous because I want her to like me best.

Jesus Christ, I need to get out of here.

As soon as Cari has her coat peeled off, she reaches for Molly and the kid jumps to her without hesitation, like a monkey, from one branch to the next. “Did you get married without me?”

“What? Are you serious?” Cari scrunches her face up in an expression that must be a Faraday women standard. “Like I would do something like that without you?” She pokes Molly in the bellybutton and she lets out a squeal. “Where’s your mom?” She’s looking at Molly when she says it, her tone is light and playful but I can hear it. Worry. Accusation. Like I have her sister hogtied in the bathtub and my hackles are instantly raised.

Not her fault, Ranger. You’re squatting on her couch because you finally committed an assault bad enough to put someone in the hospital and get yourself kicked out of the swanky rehab center her fiancé is footing the bill for. You’re lucky big sister hasn’t cut the cords on your golden parachute by now.

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