Page 23 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
She bites her tongue while she works and her little eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s me at a Harry Styles concert. See? That’s lights.” She points at a yellow blob, then a pink blob. “And that’s me. I’m pretty much all done.”
“I love it. That looks just like you. You’re a big Harry Styles fan, huh?”
At my mention of her name, Hairy Styles the dog bumps my wrist from underneath with her wet snout. I prop my paintbrush on the paper plate I’m using as a palette, wipe my wrist on my jeans, and scratch the dog behind her warm, floppy ear. We’ve reached an unspoken agreement in the days I’ve been in her domain. I scratch her behind the ears and in exchange she doesn’t rip out my jugular with her enormous teeth. She leans all of her warm body weight into me whenever I give her attention.
“Harry Styles is pretty much the best ever, of all time.” She swirls her brush in the pink paint. “That’s what me and my dad sing. Did you know that my dad is a really good dancer, too? He sings and dances with me all the time. Harry Styles is our favorite to do.”
Oh, the amount of money I could make selling this information to tabloids if I were an immoral person. “I didn’t know your dad could dance and sing. I’d love to see that.” And so would the entire female population of the United States.
“He doesn’t sing that good, just so you know.” She bites her tongue and pauses. She adds a few details to her rock that require full concentration, then holds up her masterpiece. “All done! I put my dad on it, and you. But there wasn’t room left for Hairy. Besides, she can’t go to the concert.”
“Aww, why not?”
Her half-lidded, exasperated expression is a mirror image of Oliver’s. It’s almost a jump-scare. Anders may be her father, but theinfluence of the second man in her life is evident. “Because Hairy is a dog.” Her unspoken “duh” is implied.
After a few more minutes of perfecting our painted rocks my curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s your favorite Harry Styles song to sing with your dad?” I nudge Hairy away with my foot before she demands ear scratches again. The sun on my rock is almost finished.
“I’ll show you! And I can show you our dance, too.” She drops her rock onto her paper plate and skips away. Less than a minute later a fast-paced, full-volume pop song blasts from her tablet, filling the airy kitchen. She’s working up a sweat, whirling and pumping her arms to the beat. She’s a decent little dancer. I wonder offhandedly if someone taught her to dance like this, or if it’s second nature when you’re the daughter of an entertainer.
“You’re a good dancer, Imogen. Do you take classes?”
Her face glows under my praise and she talks through her intricate, adorable dance moves. “I wish I could take classes, but my dad says I can’t ‘cause we’re gone too much. So we just dance together. That’s how I got this good.” She does an adorably awkward leap that doesn’t exactly confirm her words.
Oh, to have the confidence of the five-year-old daughter of a celebrity. “You are so good. I love this song.”
“Get up! I’ll teach you the dance.” She’s breathing a little heavier as she restarts the music. “Come on!” Her tiny, soft hand pulls me off my chair.
I’m not much of a dancer, unless you count country line dancing. Mercer and I have done that a few times at a place in town. I can dance when I’m repeating the same ten moves in a group of people who are also repeating the same ten moves in orderly lines. There’s minimal improvisation, and a generous margin for error. Line dancing fits inside my comfort zone.
What Immy is doing is so far outside my comfort zone it’s in Russia, but I mimic her anyway. She won’t judge me, and I’m ninetypercent sure Hairy won’t. I catch my reflection in the huge glass windows that line the back wall of the suite.Yikes. I’m judging myself right now. But I’m still counting this as my cardio for the day, since my run didn’t happen this morning.
Immy shows me all of the moves in her dance, and I feel like I’m finally getting them down when a booming baritone voice shouts over the music.
“You got it, Sunflower!” He dances up next to me and it is immediately clear that Immy’s skills are genetic. Oh wow, he can dance.
I drop my arms at my side and still my awkwardly gyrating hips. The embarrassment that I’ve been caught dancing poorly is entirely forgotten. “Who told you?”
He’s saved from my question when Immy throws her arms around his legs in her typical response to his return home. “Dad!” she squeals up at him like she didn’t see him eleven hours ago. Hairy barks. He grins down at her and turns his grin on me.
“Who told me what?” He asks with a phony one-dimpled smile. He is full of baloney. This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to accuse him of being a bad actor.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Who told you my name?” Very few people know that Sunny is short for Sunflower. My mother, bless her heart, is an earth-lover and her children didn’t escape her love of flora unscathed. My sisters are Marigold, Willow, and Sage. Then there’s my brother, the poor guy. He got the worst of it. I can’t even say his middle name without blushing. In my mother’s defense, when my brother was born the word didn’t have the connotation it has now. It’s become a top secret family joke.
“I met Joe today.”
“Reeeeeally?” I draw the word out. That two-timing, traitorous brother of mine! All familial loyalty has left my being. “That’s brave of him, given his middle name is—” and I repeat my brother’s name, enunciating all three syllables to drive home the sheer awfulness of it. No surprise, I blush.
Anders’mouth drops open and his startled laugh rings through the suite. “Oh, that’s awful. I can’t wait to run into him again.”
“Aub-ur… Ugh. What’s that word?” Even Immy can’t spit it out.
Luckily, her dad jumps in to change the subject. “What else are you girls up to tonight? What’s all this?” He gestures to the rocks and our paint mess on the table.
“Sorry, we’ll get that cleaned up. Just a little art project.” I drop our brushes into our cup of water while Immy crumples up our paper towels. I hate making a mess and I would’ve had this taken care of long before he got home, but he’s home early. Again. I hate that I can’t predict when he’ll walk in the door. I seem to have a knack for incriminating myself when he comes home unexpectedly. “Will you put the paper towels in the trash, kiddo?”
While I rinse brushes, Immy clears the trash and explains the hike we’re doing in the morning. While her chatter fills the room, Anders pulls one of his containers of food from the fridge and starts eating like he’s never going to see food again. He peels the "Snack" sticker off the container and tosses it on the counter before putting the used dish in the sink. I quietly clean up our mess and pop his container in the dishwasher, wiping my hands on the kitchen towel when I’m done.
Immy and her dad have a natural back-and-forth that I’m hesitant to interrupt, but it’s time for me to leave. I slide my feet into my sandals and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I’m going to head out.” I give him a smile, but the exhaustion is real. I need my bed and it’s barely seven p.m. Taking care of a child is a full-body workout. I turn to Immy, “I’ll be here bright and early for our hike, okay? Get lots of sleep!”
