Page 32 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Oh, right. How could I forget?” Kent moves to the floor, lowering himself carefully.
“Who’s this sleeping in my bed?” His inflection mimics his granddaughter’s, but he lowers his voice, and the growly tone sends a jolt of heat to my core.
“Oh my! Bears!” Lia screams. She jumps up and bolts toward the kitchen.
There’s silence as I sit and watch. Unsure what to do, I eye Kent for a clue. He groans as he pushes himself up and returns next to me. When he claps profusely, I join in. Before I know what’s happening, Lia returns from her dramatic exit, climbs into Kent’s lap, and buries her head in his chest.
“Poppy,” she says, kissing his neck. “Did you like it?”
“Yes, so much. You’re a wonderful Goldilocks.”
“What about you?” she asks, turning toward me. Her eyes open wide like giant saucers, staring. Before I answer, Lia climbs over and settles into my lap.
The soap on her skin from the aforementioned bath travels up my nose. Her face, inches from mine, searches for a clue about my opinion of her performance and how does she have no sense of personal space? Parched, I struggle to swallow and wish I hadn’t left my wine in the kitchen. She can’t weigh over forty pounds, but her knees dig into my thighs, and my skin tingles. As she stares at me, her little face inches away, the warmth from her skin reaches mine.
Her breath smells like brisket, cheese, and spearmint. Why is she on my lap?
“Poppy usually tucks me in when he’s here,” she says, her cheesy, meaty, minty breath snagging my senses.
“Yes, let’s go upstairs. Your parents are waiting for Vincent and me to eat.”
When Kent stands and puts his hand out, Lia leaps off to grab it.
“There’s a bathroom right there,” Kent says, nodding toward a door in the hallway between the kitchen and den.
Closing the door behind me, I take four deep breaths. Slowly, through my nose and out of my mouth, I attempt to center myself. Between getting stuck on the spreadsheet and being pounced on by Lia, I’m tempted to strip naked and give myself a sponge bath in the sink. Knowing that might take some time and appear … foolish, I roll up the sleeves of the shirt Kent gave me and turn the hot water on. The liquid soap—peppermint, most likely leftover from the holidays—quickly fills the bathroom with a sweet, fresh, sharp aroma, and I scour my forearms, slowly working down to my wrists, palms, and finally, my fingers.
Rinse, soap, lather, scrub. Rinse, soap, lather, scrub. My eyes focus on the water. The soap. The bubbles. The drain collects the germs and carries them away. I’m not sure how long until we eat, but I need to wash again—one more time.
“Vincent?”
The door opens a sliver, and Kent’s voice enters the space.
“Just a second.”
The door clicks, and he’s next to me. Watching. Staring. At me. Stuck in another loop. This time in his daughter’s bathroom, scrubbing my hands until they’re raw.
“Vincent, what can I do to help?”
I’m not sure what to say: the water, the soap, the germs. Rinse, soap, lather, scrub.
“Vincent, can you look at me?”
“I just need two minutes.”
“Two?”
“Has to be even.”
His hand lands on my shoulder, the pressure enough of a distraction. Leaving my hands under the water, I turn and face him.
“There you are,” he says—those eyes. There’s no judgment. No disappointment. Lines gather around them as he gives a half-smile.
“Can you tell me the songs onRumours?”
“Rumours? Why?”
“I’m curious.”
