trying to look humble and not like this whole scheme worked out just like I’d planned. “Are you sure he’s okay with it?”
“He’s fine with it.” She hands Addy over to me and ties her apron around her waist. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
“Thanks, Ivy. I don’t know what we would’ve done.”
I reach over and hug her with Addy trapped between us, squirming. Even though the appreciation is real, I feel like I have a little bit too much of my mother in me if I can manipulate someone so easily. It makes me feel like there’s something vile crawling up my back.
chapter
eight
After finding the key, I open the front door. It feels wrong at first, being in someone else’s home without that person there. The home of someone who doesn’t want us to be here.
I sit on the couch and dig a baby blanket out of the diaper bag, then spread it out on the tan living room carpet. Addy lies in the middle with her big eyes searching around her. I wonder if she remembers where she is.
She’s a good baby and doesn’t make a sound as I haul in all her stuff, the Walmart bags from our shopping trip, and my one meager bag of clothes, and sit them at the bottom of the stairs.
My hand grasps the railing, and I realize I’m taking shallow breaths as I climb the stairs. My mind is picturing Chris, shirtless, singing and painting two nights before. I won’t let myself wonder why he’s so good to a stranger and her baby.
I need this.
I deserve this.
Addy deserves this.
I turn the doorknob and peek inside the room. He didn’t just paint the room—which is now a warm candlelight ivory—there’s a wall, too, dividing the far third of the room from the rest. It runs halfway across, enough for a private area.
I hurry and look beyond the wall. A double bed and dresser have been set up for me. I have a real bed, not just a mattress on the floor. There’s a frame, a box spring, a headboard—it’s all there. It’s dizzying, seriously dizzying. Who is this boy and how can he be so generous?
It takes me fifteen minutes to drag everything up the steps. Then I carry Addy up and lay her in her Pack ’n Play while I unpack our new towels and wonder where the bathroom is. Since Addy’s still content and nobody’s home to show me around, I go downstairs to snoop.
At the bottom of the stairs, the family room and front door are to my right, and the kitchen is to my left. The kitchen is bright with white cupboards. A long oak table sits in the middle with six chairs. Two are mismatched. There’s a lazy Susan in the middle of the table holding salt and pepper shakers and napkins. There’s a sticky ring on the table at the seat on the end.
I’m biting my lip. My heart is about to slip up my throat. Other than the ring on the table, there’s no grease or grime anywhere. All the cupboard doors are intact, closed, and on hinges.
I open the fridge. It’s not full, but there’s milk . . . and orange juice . . . cheese, lunch meat, and some leftovers in a plastic container—spaghetti, maybe. Real people live here, not like at my house. At my house, we’re dead; we just keep breathing and keep waking up waiting for it to be over. But here they’re alive—for real.
A toaster sits in the middle of the counter with a plate beside it and a tub of butter. Crumbs litter the plate and countertop. Breakfast before work—what a concept.
I grab a dishcloth from the sink and wipe the table and counters. I push the toaster back against the wall, then put the plate in the sink and the butter in the refrigerator.
These men need someone to take care of them. God knows it can’t be me, but I can do my part to help while I struggle to keep Addy and myself fed, and with a roof over us.
There’s a back door at the far right end of the kitchen. Through the square window in the door, I can see that it leads out to the patio. On the far left of the kitchen is a small hallway with a laundry room off of it.
I traipse into the
“He’s fine with it.” She hands Addy over to me and ties her apron around her waist. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
“Thanks, Ivy. I don’t know what we would’ve done.”
I reach over and hug her with Addy trapped between us, squirming. Even though the appreciation is real, I feel like I have a little bit too much of my mother in me if I can manipulate someone so easily. It makes me feel like there’s something vile crawling up my back.
chapter
eight
After finding the key, I open the front door. It feels wrong at first, being in someone else’s home without that person there. The home of someone who doesn’t want us to be here.
I sit on the couch and dig a baby blanket out of the diaper bag, then spread it out on the tan living room carpet. Addy lies in the middle with her big eyes searching around her. I wonder if she remembers where she is.
She’s a good baby and doesn’t make a sound as I haul in all her stuff, the Walmart bags from our shopping trip, and my one meager bag of clothes, and sit them at the bottom of the stairs.
My hand grasps the railing, and I realize I’m taking shallow breaths as I climb the stairs. My mind is picturing Chris, shirtless, singing and painting two nights before. I won’t let myself wonder why he’s so good to a stranger and her baby.
I need this.
I deserve this.
Addy deserves this.
I turn the doorknob and peek inside the room. He didn’t just paint the room—which is now a warm candlelight ivory—there’s a wall, too, dividing the far third of the room from the rest. It runs halfway across, enough for a private area.
I hurry and look beyond the wall. A double bed and dresser have been set up for me. I have a real bed, not just a mattress on the floor. There’s a frame, a box spring, a headboard—it’s all there. It’s dizzying, seriously dizzying. Who is this boy and how can he be so generous?
It takes me fifteen minutes to drag everything up the steps. Then I carry Addy up and lay her in her Pack ’n Play while I unpack our new towels and wonder where the bathroom is. Since Addy’s still content and nobody’s home to show me around, I go downstairs to snoop.
At the bottom of the stairs, the family room and front door are to my right, and the kitchen is to my left. The kitchen is bright with white cupboards. A long oak table sits in the middle with six chairs. Two are mismatched. There’s a lazy Susan in the middle of the table holding salt and pepper shakers and napkins. There’s a sticky ring on the table at the seat on the end.
I’m biting my lip. My heart is about to slip up my throat. Other than the ring on the table, there’s no grease or grime anywhere. All the cupboard doors are intact, closed, and on hinges.
I open the fridge. It’s not full, but there’s milk . . . and orange juice . . . cheese, lunch meat, and some leftovers in a plastic container—spaghetti, maybe. Real people live here, not like at my house. At my house, we’re dead; we just keep breathing and keep waking up waiting for it to be over. But here they’re alive—for real.
A toaster sits in the middle of the counter with a plate beside it and a tub of butter. Crumbs litter the plate and countertop. Breakfast before work—what a concept.
I grab a dishcloth from the sink and wipe the table and counters. I push the toaster back against the wall, then put the plate in the sink and the butter in the refrigerator.
These men need someone to take care of them. God knows it can’t be me, but I can do my part to help while I struggle to keep Addy and myself fed, and with a roof over us.
There’s a back door at the far right end of the kitchen. Through the square window in the door, I can see that it leads out to the patio. On the far left of the kitchen is a small hallway with a laundry room off of it.
I traipse into the
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