Page 50 of Bottle Shock
I raise an eyebrow. “The real timer or the one in your head?”
Her grin falters for half a second, then reforms. “Both.”
“Uh-huh.” I chuckle, straightening. “Go grab a book, and I’ll meet you in your room.”
She sprints down the hall, socked feet sliding across the hardwood.
I give the counter one last half-hearted wipe, then flick off the kitchen light.
In Lily’s room, she’s already climbed under the covers, a paperback spread across her knees.The way the covers frame her makes her look impossibly young and heartbreakingly grown.
“Whatcha reading tonight?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“Magic Tree House,” she says, eyes bright. “The one where they go to the moon.”
“Good choice.” I step inside and sit on the edge of her bed, tugging the blanket over her toes. “How many chapters are we doing?”
“One.”
“Two,” I counter automatically.
She giggles. “One and a half?”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. One and a half.”
She snuggles deeper into the pillow, satisfied, and starts to read aloud. Halfway through the second chapter, her eyelids start to droop, and her voice slows down.
When the words finally trail off, she blinks up at me, sleepy but still alert enough to ask, “Dad? When are Grandma and Grandpa coming again?”
I set the book aside. “Friday morning. Remember? They’re picking you up early for your trip.”
She sits up a little, her hair a tangled halo against the pillow.“Disneyland,” she hisses, excitement bubbling under her breath.
“Yep.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Disneyland. You’re going to have the best time.”
“I know.” Her answer is full of confidence.
I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things before you go, okay?”
She looks suddenly serious, like she’s bracing for bad news. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not even a little.” I chuckle softly. “I just want you to remember to be on your best behavior for Grandma and Grandpa. That means listening, helping, and—most importantly—no tricking them into spoiling you and buying every treat you see.”
She gasps, hand to her chest. “That happened one time.”
“And one time was plenty.” I try to keep my face straight. “Also, if you get nervous or homesick or anything at all, you can call me, okay? Anytime.”
“I won’t be nervous,” she says simply, as if the idea is absurd. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know you’re not.” I try to smile, but it feels uneven. “Still, I want you to know you can always call me. Or text me from Grandma’s phone.”
She yawns, settling back into her pillow. “Can I call you even if I’m not scared? Just to tell you stuff?”
“Of course.” My throat tightens. “You can always tell me stuff. You never have to have a reason.”
Her eyelids flutter closed, and I sit there for a while, watching her breathe—the rise and fall of her chest.
There are moments—small, quiet ones like this—where I feel like I’ve done something right. And then there are otherswhere I realize how quickly she’s growing away from me.
