Page 8 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“The feedback is that the dogs improve students’ interest and confidence in reading.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you have any statistics to back that up?”
Her starry-eyed expression falters. Blast it, I realize too late I sound like a CIA interrogator and I need to tone it down. She’s still someone I need on my daughter’s side.
“It sounds like a good program,” I lie, “but it doesn’t sound like it would suit Lisset.”
I check my watch. Time to exit the classroom and this conversation. I’ll figure out what’s going on with Lisset on my own.
When I broach the subject with Lisset in the car, I have no better luck than the teacher in getting her to open up. She refuses to disclose why she won’t read, treating me to a moody shrug and a mumbled statement that books are boring. My chatterbox child is unusually recalcitrant.
I have failed at so many things in my life, but I cannot fail Lisset. Parenting is the one part I want to get right. Not perfect, just...not failing.
It’s in moments like this, when I study the lost look on my daughter’s face, that I feel the weight of being a single parent. Ican’t simply pick up the phone and ask my husband, “What do you think we should do here? Any ideas, because I’m stumped?”
But I have family, I remind myself. I’m not completely alone.
With worry pulling at my chest, I say to Lisset, “Hey, what do you say we surprise Grandad and Grandma with a visit?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Their car is the first thing I notice when I ease into my parents’ driveway.
“Auntie Tess and Uncle Aaron are here!” shouts Lisset, wriggling with happiness in the backseat.
“Yes, I see.”
After I park, Lisset flies out of the car and disappears into the house. I follow more slowly. Unlike my daughter’s unreserved delight, I’m always more conflicted when it comes to my sister. Much like I am with onions. I love them, but they also give me heartburn.
I shed my scarf and jacket in the entrance hall and make my way to the kitchen. The scent of chocolate chip cookies swirls around me. I’m tumbled back to a childhood of scraped knees and fresh apple juice and belly laughs around the kitchen table. My parents’ house is everything whole and welcoming in the world.
Tess is crouched down listening to Lisset’s edited recounting of her day. My sister’s long, curly-brown hair is tied back in a simple ponytail, with a few pieces framing her face.
I pour myself a glass of water while I wait for Lisset to finish. When she finally runs out of steam and wanders off to look for my mom, snagging an apple on her way out the kitchen, I ask Tess, “Why aren’t you at your usual Wednesday night get-together with Sofia and Kenzie?”
Tess straightens. “Kenzie has a bachelorette thing, so we rearranged for tomorrow.” Her green eyes light up withcuriosity. “Why aren’tyouat home? Avoiding your new neighbor?”
“No.”Yes. At least, that’s part of the reason I’m here.
“Well, I’m glad you decided to drop by,” she says, flinging her arms out as she steps toward me. “I’ve missed you.”
My body stiffens at her approach. “Tess, I don’t hug.”
“Of course you don’t,” she replies breezily, throwing her arms around me. “Lucky for you, I do.”
She holds onto me for at least twenty seconds. I stand there, enduring it, but not altogether loathing the fact that she’s so demonstrative with her affection. She gives me an extra squeeze before ending the mild torture.
Stepping back, she asks, “How was your burger shoot?”
“Uneventful.”
“Did you make any assistants cry?”
“It was a small shoot. There were no assistants.”
“You must feel so disappointed and unfulfilled.”
“Not really,” I reply. “You’re here and I derive great pleasure from tormenting you.”
