Page 71 of Hopeless Romantic
Flashlight set to blind any would-be attacker, he aimed it at her porch, not surprised to find her rummaging through her bag.
“Please tell me you’re looking for the charged taser you keep in your bag of tricks?” he called after her. “And not your keys.”
She glanced up from the bag, her eyes squinting into the light, before sticking her head back into the purse. She didn’t come back out until he was standing behind her, shining the light over her shoulder and into her bag. Sensing she needed both hands to search, he palmed the bottom of the bag.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, not bothering to look up. Even when the slamming of cabinets sounded from inside.
She handed him a wallet, which required him to put the flashlight between his teeth. Next came her giant calendar, three packs of gum, a library book titledAnimals of the World, and a dish—which looked a lot like the ones in his truck.
“Did you steal my leftover galaktoboureko?”
“You said you’d send me home with some,” she said into her bag. Suddenly, a hand shot out, keys dangling from the fingertips, and she followed this with a smug smile. “Found them.”
She stuffed everything back in, took the bag from him, slipped it over her shoulder, and then lifted his flashlight to light the door lock.
He gripped the back of his neck. “Here I thought Paisley was going to be the one to send me into premature grayness.”
Ignoring this, she stuck her key in the door, twisted, and the lock clicked. She opened the door, peeked in, and slammed it closed. She spun to face him, her look expectant.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said as the door flew open.
They were greeted with the sound of Beethoven, the scent of burnt ashes, and Thomas. “No. Everything is not okay. Dad called me Thomas.”
“Your name is Thomas,” Beckett said patiently.
“Not anymore. It’s Tommy. T-O-M-M-Y, Tommy,” he said loudly.
“Your sister told me to call you Thomas,” an older male voice said from somewhere in the bowels of the house.
“School says I get to choose what you call me. I choose Tommy. T-O-M-M-Y. Tommy,” her brother repeated over and over again.
Tommy began walking tight circles around the front room, following a set of muddy footprints that appeared to have already dried. Every so often, he’d step on one of a hundred or so Lego pieces—all red—with his rain boots, smashing it deeper into the carpet. Behind Tommy, doing his best to keep pace, was a dog with tree stumps for legs.
Beckett took one look at the scene and sighed, her head dropping to meet her chest. “Where’s Gregory?”
“In his cage,” the same voice bellowed from inside. “I didn’t want him to eat the jellybeans.”
“What jellybeans?” she asked.
A man in a charred apron, with professor glasses and the hair of a Muppet, came into view. He pointed to the “Lego pieces” Tommy was stomping into the carpet. “I lost track of time, and Thomas fed himself dinner.”
“Jellybeans?” Beckett’s head jerked up. “They make him sick.”
The dazed Muppet scratched his head. “About that. Don’t worry, I cleaned it up. Mostly.”
“I did not eat the red ones,” Tommy explained, without stopping. “Red food coloring increases hyperactivity.”
It also increased the odds that Beckett would be stuck with a cream-and-pink-colored area rug.
“Why don’t you sit on the couch before you wear Diesel out?” She walked her brother to the couch and placed the dog in his lap.
“Can I play videogames?” Tommy asked.
“Not after dinner. You know the rules.”
“I haven’t eaten dinner. Just jellybeans.”
