Page 21 of The Devil You Know
“Um, no,” Lisa says. Yeah, nice save. Okay, I get it. Ryan is hotter than I am. “I just can’t believe you pickedBenover him. I mean, not that Ben isn’t a great guy and all…”
I glare at her.
“Come on, Jane!” She runs a hand through her wild dark curls. I only notice now that she’s got a red flower in there. It’s not clear whether she pinned it there this morning herself, or she was just walking by some flowers at some point during the morning and one of them caught in her curls. “You know what I’m talking about. How did you have the willpower to turn down a guy like that?”
“He really isn’t all that great,” I tell her, “once you get to know him. I mean, sure, he’s good looking. But there’s a lot more to a relationship.”
Except that’s not entirely the truth. My relationship with Ryan went beyond the physical—I was always struggling not to fall too deeply for him, because it wouldhave been so easy. If Ryan had been willing to marry me, I’d be Mrs. Jane Reilly right now. Actually, I’d still be Jane McGill since I didn’t want to change my name. But I’d definitely have married Ryan if he’d ever asked me. Or if he didn’t assure me that it would never happen in a million years.
But there’s no point in thinking about any of that. I’m with Ben and it all worked out for the best.
Chapter 8
“Mommy, I’m ‘fraid of the dark.”
Is it terrible that I think my three-year-old daughter is a liar? Not that I don’t believe a child can be afraid of the dark, but the thing is, her bedroom is not dark. It’s not anything resembling dark. Yes, the overhead lights are off, but that doesn’t matter. There are super brightFrozen-themed nightlights plugged into literally every outlet in the room. There are two desk lights that are on. The light in her walk-in closet is on. And we’ve got an iPad in the corner that glows as it plays soothing sleep music.
I suppose I could offer to turn the overhead light on and just abandon all pretense of darkness. But then I feel like she’d forget it was bedtime and just get up and start playing.
“Leah, honey,” I say. “You have to go to sleep. It’s really late.”
And Mommy needs an hour to herself before going to bed or else she will have a nervous breakdown.
“Mommy?” Leah says.
“Yes?”
She sniffles. “I’m scared you’re going to die.”
I groan to myself. Last week, we let Leah watch the movieBambi. I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to put that particular tear-jerker on, but we’ve been paying for it ever since. Why would they make a movie for kids abouta deer whose mother dies? I know it was a long time ago and kids were tougher back then, but it seems to be deliberately traumatizing. I think every children’s movie should only involve good things happening all the time with little to no conflict whatsoever. Because otherwise, you end up with a three-year-old who is terrified that her mother will be shot by a hunter while she sleeps.
“I’m not going to die,” I assure her.
Her green eyes fill with tears. “It’s sosad, Mommy.”
“I know,” I admit. Poor Bambi. When we were watching the movie, I was crying right along with Leah.
“Can’t you lie down with me?” Leah pleads. “Just for one minute?”
Leah’s concept of “one minute” is very shaky. It’s something she hears us saying, so she repeats it all the time. She’ll say to us, “Can you play with me for one minute?” But what she actually means is, “Can you play with me for hours on end?”
But I know that there’s no way I’m getting out of this room while Leah’s still feeling traumatized fromBambi, so I settle down next to her in bed. This is dangerousbecause I’m really tired, so the second I lie down, I’m liable to fall fast asleep. And then I’ll wake up an hour later, feeling completely disoriented.
So I keep my eyes open as I lie down next to Leah’s warm body. She runs her hand through my hair with varying degrees of gentleness.
“I love you, Mommy,” she murmurs.
“I love you too,” I say.
“I love you a hundred,” she says.
“I love you a thousand.”
She smiles. “I love you a million.”
“I love you infinity,” I say, hoping to put an end to this game, since there is obviously no number larger than infinity.
“I love you infinity plus a hundred,” Leah says.
