Page 110 of Pucked Up Plans
“How do you know?” Let’s hope she’s not smart enough to pick up on the fact I confirmed what she’s telling me. But seriously. How the hell did she figure this out? She’s freaking five.
“You buy her flowers.”
Oh.
I can work with this.
“Flowers make her happy.”
“You do her dishes. Like Poppa does for Mimi.”
Not entirely the case, but in her mind, she won’t see the difference.
“Like Mimi, she cooks, so I clean up. Like I do for Mimi too.”
She has no comeback. A part of me wonders why I’m justifying myself to my preschooler, and why I’m entertaining this line of discussion. But it’s what I do. I’m not always the adult in our dynamic. At least not the way I should be. Hopefully, by the time she’s a little older and wiser, my life experience will kick in and she won’t be able to rattle me so easily.
I won’t hold my breath.
Lennon’s quiet the rest of the short ride home, staring out the window, lost in her little world. She seems to have forgotten—or let it go—her request to call Tate. Don’t tell her, but once she’s in bed for the night, I plan to do that.
I should have known she wouldn’t let it go so easily.
At home, she empties her bag, and my mom gets a hold of her for her bath. Bless you, Millie Keeley. I throw in a load of our laundry, suddenly tired. Maybe if I let Lennon sleep in my bed, it will be an easier bedtime tonight.
No. I’m supposed to work on curbing her bedtime bad habits, not encouraging them.
Lennon joins me in my room, freshly bathed in PJs, her hair pulled back in two braids. Scrambling up on my bed, she settles in my lap. I think back to Tate’s comment about the bond between the two of us and can’t help but smile. I would like to believe I’d love any kid of mine, but there’s something uniquely special about Lennon.
“I love you, Squirt. Did you enjoy Thanksgiving with Momma?”
“It was so boring. And Grandma made me eat all the stuff on my plate. Even those yucky sweet potatoes.” I can’t see her face, but I’m sure it’s one of disgust.
“Did they at least have marshmallows on them?”
“Nope.” She leans back, rubbing her head against my chest, trying to get comfortable, one of her telltale signs she’s tired.
“Want me to read you a book and then tuck you in?”
“We didn’t call Tate,” she says with a yawn, completely ignoring my question.
Jeez, kiddo. Why are you suddenly trying to steal my girl?
“She’s busy putting Aubrey to bed. And she’ll be here in the morning.”
“Okay. How about two books?”
Her ability to move on from one topic to another astounds me. Sometimes I have a hard time keeping up with the five-year-old.
“Deal.”
By some miracle, Lennon only gets out of bed once tonight. I text Tate but don’t hear from her.
I’m glad she’s coming for breakfast tomorrow for both Lennon's and my sakes.
CHAPTER 25
TATE
