Page 24 of Pumped

I hurry after them. “Where are you going?”

“To find chicken nuggets!” Everest points into the distance like they’re about to embark on an adventure.

“To find chicken nuggets!” Ivy shouts.

“But…” My protest dies on my lips.But what about the stir fry I made?

Everest and Ivy are already at the front door and he’s helping her into her shoes and coat. He throws a smirk at me. “We’ll pick you up some too.”

I don’t dignify his comment with a response. Instead, I cross my arms defensively over my chest as my insides twist with jealousy and pain.

The door closes behind them and I stare at it for several long seconds before I head back to the kitchen.

The stir fry is still in the wok, covered to keep it warm. So much for cooking. So much for sharing our first dinner together. Why did I even bother? What was the point of trying?

We’re not really a family. I’m not really a parent. Ivy would rather be with fun Uncle Everest than boring Uncle Owen. Everest and I can barely stand each other.

I was delusional, thinking that tonight matters, that it means something, that it’s important. It’s not. This whole farce isdoomed and all I should hope for is to simply get through each day.

I go to the refrigerator and pull open the freezer. The tub of salted caramel ice cream sits in the corner and I send up a silent thank you to Mom. Somehow, she knew I would need this. I rip off the lid, grab a spoon, and dig in.

CHAPTER

NINE

EVEREST

“Uggghhh.” I sprawl awkwardly across the top of the front desk at Mars, head slumped forward, arms hanging off the opposite edge.

From behind the counter, Sawyer pats me on the head. “There. There.”

Without moving, I give him the middle finger. “Shut up. You have no idea what it’s like raising a kid.”

“Nope!” Sawyer agrees with way too much delight. “And I don’t plan on finding out. Not for a long while, at least. Preston and I really aren’t kids people.”

It’s been a couple weeks—or maybe three, time is meaningless—since Owen and I were left to raise Ivy on our own. I knew raising a kid wasn’t easy. Everyone warned me that it wasn’t. But no one told me it would be this fucking hard!

Ivy is anangel, a cranky, moody, stubborn angel who goes from dead tired to hyper and back in the time it takes me to do a burpee. She’s adorable, but she’sexhausting. I don’t know how the hell Eden and Jeremy managed to both hold down full-time jobs and parent at the same time.

Sawyer shoves a newly laundered towel at me. “Fold.” He grabs a second one from the pile he pulled from the dryer and shakes it out. “Is it really that bad? I mean, it could be worse, right? You could be doing it all by yourself?”

With a loud groan, I heave myself upright. Doing it all by myself sounds like both a dream and a nightmare at this point. Splitting the responsibilities with someone else is obviously better, but with Owen, of all people? Ugh. Kill me now.

“I don’t know, man. It might be easier that way. Owen’s like a fucking drill sergeant trying to get Ivy to grow up and fall in line. Like, dude, she’s six years old and she just lost her parents. Chill the fuck out.”

Sawyer looks alarmed. “What’s he doing?”

I slide my folded towel to the side and gesture for another. “Just like, stuff. Like, get up early, wear these clothes, eat this food, go to school, pick up your toys, go to bed.”

Sawyer arches an eyebrow at me. “Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?”

“Yeah, but like, not like that!” I exclaim, throwing my hands into the air. They land with a soft thud on the fluffy towel.

“Then like what?” Sawyer looks at me like I’m delusional.

But I’m not. Sawyer doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have to go home to Owen and Ivy facing off, with tension crackling in the air. It feels like I’m stepping into a war zone every single time, but the thing is, it doesn’t have to be. Owen just needs to stop being a fucking asshole. But that’s never going to happen.

“It’s like this. Owen is like, determined to make Ivy’s life a living hell. He’s an emotional robot, you know what I mean? They’re constantly arguing over every little thing, and then she starts crying and throws a temper tantrum, and guess who has to step in to get her to stop?” I point at myself with both hands. “Me. That’s who.”

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