Read Online Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) by Ann Christopher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Christopher
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sweetie,” Angela said, her voice hoarse from sleep and tears.
“Hi,” Maya said, her voice muffled by the dog.
Angela racked her brain for an available, age-appropriate topic to discuss with her—something that wouldn’t trigger immediate questions or memories about her parents.
“What—” She cleared her throat. “I mean...how did you sleep?”
“Good.”
“Good.”
The silence lengthened as they stared at each other. For the life of her, Angela couldn’t think of anything to say. What on earth did people talk to three-and-a-half-year-olds about?
“How did your doggie sleep?”
“Aunt Ang-la.” Maya rolled her eyes. “He’s a toy . He doesn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” Angela nodded. “Right. I should have known that.”
Maya’s eyes blinked at her from over the top of the dog’s head.
Angela nervously chewed the inside of her cheek. Why was Maya staring at her like that? They’d never had very much to say to each other before, true, but she couldn’t recall the kid just standing there staring . Was this normal? Or was it a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder she should be worried about? Did other kids stare like this?
She decided to give conversation another try. “What’s your doggie’s name?”
Maya shrugged.
At a complete loss, Angela fell silent again, thinking hard.
“Scooby?” she suggested hopefully. “Lassie? Toto? Rex? Max? Fido? Are you telling me this dog doesn’t have a name?”
More silence.
Angela gave up, sighed, and climbed out of bed. They might as well face the inevitable and begin what was sure to be another horrible day.
“Well, we’ll have to work on a name for him, okay?”
“Okay,” Maya said.
Angela took Maya’s warm little hand—her skin was so soft —and led her down the hall to the kitchen.
“Let’s see what we have to eat. Are you hungry?”
Maya nodded.
Angela swung open the refrigerator and stooped down to look inside. “Yogurt?”
“Eeeeew!” Maya’s face wrinkled up like a Shar Pei.
“Riiight,” Angela said. “Well, how about some cereal and milk?”
“Okay.”
Relieved, Angela turned to the pantry and opened the door.
“Have a seat at the counter,” she said, pointing to one of the stools.
Maya regarded the high-backed stools dubiously for a moment, then swung one plump leg onto the bottom rung and heaved herself into her seat. Angela pulled the box of granola cereal from the shelf and turned to find a bowl.
“What’s that?” Maya asked warily.
“Granola.”
“Eeeeew!”
Angela felt the first stirrings of impatience. She put the box back and surveyed her other choices. “Raisin Bran?” She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look of horror cross Maya’s face.
“All righty, then,” she muttered. “No yogurt, no granola, no Raisin Bran. I suppose oatmeal is out, too?”
“I want Count Chocu-laaa.”
Maya’s whine was only slightly less annoying than a guinea pig’s squeal.
“Maya,” she said crisply, trying to channel The Look her mother used to give her and Carolyn when trouble was pending, “we do not whine in this house.”
Maya glared impotently but kept quiet, which made Angela feel terrible. Surely she could tolerate a little whininess from a preschooler who’d just lost both parents.
“Okay,” she said gently, deciding to give diplomacy one last chance, “the only other choice you have is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread. That’s the best I can do.”
Maya’s lower lip slowly poked out until finally she looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to her mouth. “I want Wonder Bread.”
Angela repressed a shudder. Crossing her arms over her chest, she planted her feet wide. Enough was enough. By the time they finished breakfast negotiations, it would be time for dinner.
“Peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread. With crust.”
Maya’s withering gaze faltered, then fell, but she still wouldn’t let Angela have the last word. “Cut it in four
“Hi,” Maya said, her voice muffled by the dog.
Angela racked her brain for an available, age-appropriate topic to discuss with her—something that wouldn’t trigger immediate questions or memories about her parents.
“What—” She cleared her throat. “I mean...how did you sleep?”
“Good.”
“Good.”
The silence lengthened as they stared at each other. For the life of her, Angela couldn’t think of anything to say. What on earth did people talk to three-and-a-half-year-olds about?
“How did your doggie sleep?”
“Aunt Ang-la.” Maya rolled her eyes. “He’s a toy . He doesn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” Angela nodded. “Right. I should have known that.”
Maya’s eyes blinked at her from over the top of the dog’s head.
Angela nervously chewed the inside of her cheek. Why was Maya staring at her like that? They’d never had very much to say to each other before, true, but she couldn’t recall the kid just standing there staring . Was this normal? Or was it a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder she should be worried about? Did other kids stare like this?
She decided to give conversation another try. “What’s your doggie’s name?”
Maya shrugged.
At a complete loss, Angela fell silent again, thinking hard.
“Scooby?” she suggested hopefully. “Lassie? Toto? Rex? Max? Fido? Are you telling me this dog doesn’t have a name?”
More silence.
Angela gave up, sighed, and climbed out of bed. They might as well face the inevitable and begin what was sure to be another horrible day.
“Well, we’ll have to work on a name for him, okay?”
“Okay,” Maya said.
Angela took Maya’s warm little hand—her skin was so soft —and led her down the hall to the kitchen.
“Let’s see what we have to eat. Are you hungry?”
Maya nodded.
Angela swung open the refrigerator and stooped down to look inside. “Yogurt?”
“Eeeeew!” Maya’s face wrinkled up like a Shar Pei.
“Riiight,” Angela said. “Well, how about some cereal and milk?”
“Okay.”
Relieved, Angela turned to the pantry and opened the door.
“Have a seat at the counter,” she said, pointing to one of the stools.
Maya regarded the high-backed stools dubiously for a moment, then swung one plump leg onto the bottom rung and heaved herself into her seat. Angela pulled the box of granola cereal from the shelf and turned to find a bowl.
“What’s that?” Maya asked warily.
“Granola.”
“Eeeeew!”
Angela felt the first stirrings of impatience. She put the box back and surveyed her other choices. “Raisin Bran?” She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look of horror cross Maya’s face.
“All righty, then,” she muttered. “No yogurt, no granola, no Raisin Bran. I suppose oatmeal is out, too?”
“I want Count Chocu-laaa.”
Maya’s whine was only slightly less annoying than a guinea pig’s squeal.
“Maya,” she said crisply, trying to channel The Look her mother used to give her and Carolyn when trouble was pending, “we do not whine in this house.”
Maya glared impotently but kept quiet, which made Angela feel terrible. Surely she could tolerate a little whininess from a preschooler who’d just lost both parents.
“Okay,” she said gently, deciding to give diplomacy one last chance, “the only other choice you have is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread. That’s the best I can do.”
Maya’s lower lip slowly poked out until finally she looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to her mouth. “I want Wonder Bread.”
Angela repressed a shudder. Crossing her arms over her chest, she planted her feet wide. Enough was enough. By the time they finished breakfast negotiations, it would be time for dinner.
“Peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread. With crust.”
Maya’s withering gaze faltered, then fell, but she still wouldn’t let Angela have the last word. “Cut it in four
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