Page 14 of Pucked Up Plans
Uh, no. Perhaps not that. I want to know, but I certainly can’t ask. Not in this friendly way we are sorta getting to know each other. At least as parents to our daughters who are forming a friendship.
I haven’t said anything in a while, and I’m most likely gawking at her. Thank goodness Aubrey runs over.
“Mommy, gotta go potty.” Her face scrunches, and she bounces from foot to foot.
“Okay, Bean.” Hopping up off the ground, her eyes scan the vicinity. “You’ll have to hold it. I’m not sure there’s a bathroom here.”
“It’s most likely closed for the season,” I inform her regretfully.
“I gotta go bad. Real bad.” Poor kid seems on the verge of tears, one leg crossed over the other.
“I gotta get her home. Thanks for the invite. We’ll have to set up another playdate for the girls.”
Tate doesn’t even wait for my response, just scoops Aubrey up in her arms and makes a beeline for the parking lot.
Wonder how far they live from here and if she’ll make it home. I shudder at the thought of having to clean the damn car seat. Although urine is by far easier than poop or vomit…
“Can we stay? I didn’t finish feeding all the bread to the duckies.” Lennon holds up the rest of the bag. Gratefully, it’s almost gone.
“Of course, Squirt.” I dig a piece of bread out for myself and mosey closer to the water. “What are you making us for dinner?”
Without missing a beat, my five-year-old replies, “I didn’t get the memo from Mimi, but whatever it is, you’re going to eat it and like it.”
A deep rumble tears out of my chest. She parrots words she’s heard too many times to count. And her delivery is spot-on.
I tuck her into my legs. “That’s my girl.”
“Always, Keeley. Always.”
Sassy and sweet. A perfect combination.
CHAPTER 6
TATE
My mood shouldn’t depend on whether I see Walsh each day, but apparently, it does. Or maybe my period’s due soon. Ever since getting pregnant with Aubrey, it’s been inconsistent. Showing up when it wants, whether it’s been twenty days or forty-five. I should contemplate birth control, but working single mom to a five-year-old equates to barely having the time to pee on my own, let alone get to appointments. It’s on my list. Just way down at the bottom.
Because other people have picked Lennon up from preschool, it’s been like a week without seeing him. Yes, I’ve counted. No, I’m not ashamed. I should be, but well, I’m not.
Here’s the thing—I have his number. But I haven’t used it yet. I can’t tell him she liked the marshmallows because I’d be lying. And I don’t want to start a friendship out on a lie.
A friendship? Let’s not get ahead of yourself there, Tate.
She spit the thing out before she even bit it. I should be happy she’s got a tiny sweet tooth. In this case, it meant I ate the entire bag because I didn’t want it to go to waste. He went out of his way to get them for us. The least I can do is eat and enjoy them, even if my kid doesn’t.
So, yeah. And “thanks for the marshmallows” seems like a cop-out. Especially days after the fact.
I think what’s really got my panties in a twist is the ex. Lennon’s mother. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Even though she walks like she’s got a stick up her ass—and I’ve yet to see her smile—she’s still so pretty. And her makeup game is on point. I gave up trying for the smokey eye look. I’m lucky if I swipe the lids with a single color.
She seems such the opposite of Walsh. Guess they proved the whole “opposites attract” thing true.
Right. That’s why she’s the ex.
Still. He was with her at some point, enough to get her pregnant.
This internal debate I’m having in my head has to stop. It will be easy enough once I get Walsh out of my head.
Easier said than done, of course.
