Page 41 of Entirely Yours
She takes off before I have a chance to say anything else, and I follow her. Something I find myself more and more willing to do.
Between Chloe’s preferred sleeping position—feet planted firmly on my lower back—and the amount of time it’s taken to finish painting the studio—I still need to come up with a proper name—I am exhausted. And maybe a little bit snippy.
“Thea?” my Dad bellows from the kitchen.
“What?!” I snap. Nothing drives me crazier than when someone yells across the house for you instead of just walking to find you.
Okay, maybe I’m a lot bit snippy.
Dad gets the idea, though, and within a few moments he’s poked his head into my room. “Everything alright, darlin’?” he asks.
“You mean aside from being accidentally impregnated again?” I flop down onto the bed, abandoning the laundry I was folding.
Dad’s head swivels around to check for Chloe. I still haven’t told her that she’s getting a little brother or sister.She’s entirely too inquisitive right now, and I’m not ready to answer those questions. “She’s ‘doing her makeup’”—I add the air quotes—“and listening to Dolly with her headphones on.”
“I thought I heard her singing the chorus ofJolenea moment ago.”
“Her favorite,” we say simultaneously, because yes, my four-year-old is obsessed with a song about a woman trying to steal another woman’s man.
“In Dolly we trust,” he adds before we both cross ourselves like we are offering a prayer up to Dolly Parton herself.
“Anyway, did you need something?” I ask.
He reaches up and twists his mustache. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ about enchiladas for dinner. That sound good to you?”
The newest pregnancy symptom this week is food aversions. Dad was cooking ground beef last week and I had to go over to Ben and Gabe’s to escape the smell. “That’s fine, just no beef.” I want to throw up just thinking about it.
“Chicken enchiladas, aye aye, Captain.” He salutes and then turns on his cowboy booted heel and walks out of the room.
One thing about Hank Rose is he’ll always be wearing cowboy boots. It doesn’t matter that we’ve lived in Massachusetts for almost eight years at this point. He also cooks Tex-Mex any chance he gets because he has yet to find one restaurant that is up to his standards. One time he even went as far as to leave cash on the table and walk out when a waiter brought over queso that looked alarmingly neon.
I’m about to get back to the laundry task at hand when I hear a blood curdling, “MAMA!” A sound that cuts to the soul of any parent within hearing distance.
Sprinting to the bathroom, Dad, Chloe, and I all converge outside the door. Immediately, I bend down and check for injuries. “What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” I don’t wear any sort of smart watch but if I did it would probably be telling me to go to the hospital for an abnormal heart rate.
“I didn’t do it!” she wails, one eye covered in blue eyeshadow and blush across the entirety of her forehead.
“Didn’t do what, Chlo?” Dad asks, also bending down to her level.
“It”—sob—“just”—sob—“did”—sob—“it!” And another sob for good measure.
I push Chloe’s hair back and place her hand on my chest, a strategy we use to help regulate when we feel big emotions. “Honey, you have to breathe so you can tell us what you’re talking about. Did you break something? It’s okay if you made a mess, we can clean it up.”
“Water!” she wails again.
“I can get you some water, will that help?” I ask.
“Shit, Thea, look.” Dad pushes the door open and, sure enough, there’s water everywhere.
“Fuck!” I yell.
“Language!” Chloe sobs.
“Get some towels,” Dad grumbles.
All three of us scramble to throw towels onto the ground to soak up the water. It doesn’t take long to find the busted pipe under the sink, spewing water faster than we can sop it up.
“How do we get it off?” I’m panicking as the water starts to make its way into the hall.
