Page 110
Story: Tiny Precious Secrets
I get eggs, milk, and bacon from the refrigerator. I don’t bother asking if she wants any. I know what her answer will be.‘Whatever.’ I just make breakfast and set it out without any fanfare. Sometimes she eats it. Sometimes she doesn’t.
Waiting on the bacon to cook, I watch as Darla gets a Ziploc bag from a drawer, throws in a granola bar and a banana, and tucks it into her backpack.
I get money from my purse. “Here.” I put twenty dollars on the table. “In case your dad forgot to give you lunch money.”
She looks at it but doesn’t take it. “Nobody pays with cash. He puts money into an account at school. Believe me, there’s plenty.”
I cock my head. “You don’t like school food? I don’t remember it being particularly horrible.”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. Haven’t tried it.”
I stir the eggs, not wanting to seem overly interested in the conversation because that will usually put an end to it. “Well, ifyou do, just don’t try the pizza. Anything but that. Unless it’s a Tuesday and they order in bulk from a pizza chain. Do they still do that on Tuesdays?”
She shrugs again. “Don’t know. I’ve never been in the cafeteria.”
“Never?” I turn as my eyes bug out. Then I catch myself and spin back around, making myself busy so I appear much less interested than I actually am.
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t dare push. I just put out the food and start eating.
“It’s pointless to go. Christian and I don’t even have the same lunch. He has lunch A and I have lunch B. School pretty much sucks all around because we only have one class together.”
“If you don’t go to the cafeteria, where do you eat?”
“Courtyard mostly. But when it gets cold I’ll be scoping out other places.”
“What about the girls from the soccer team? Can’t you eat with them?”
She scoffs air through her nose. “Right. Those.” She takes a strip of bacon and shoves the entire thing in her mouth. “They’re still trying to decide if they like me.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case. They just need time to warm up to you. Because I’m here to tell you, anyone who knows you will like you, Darla.”
She stands, puts her coffee cup in the sink, takes another strip of bacon, and walks out the front door with her backpack.
Damn. I crossed the line into giving parenting advice. I should know by now how anytime that happens, she puts up the wall I’ve yet to penetrate.
We’ve had a few conversations. Mostly about things that don’t matter much. Like when we’re breaking ground on the pool or how Charlie did at T-ball. Conversations may be a stretch—it’s more like we share a few sentences here and there. But onething I’ve noticed is that she has been more respectful. Quiet and disengaging, but civil all the same. It happened after I fell into her room. I think she still feels guilty over it. I never told Asher, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t give me as much push-back as before.
I finish breakfast, clean up, and go to work, glad that it’s Thursday and Natasha is running the wedding this weekend. Because I’m definitely getting too big, too scatter-brained, and too damn exhausted for such large events.
~ ~ ~
After a long day at work, I go right from the garage into the bedroom, only stopping to pee before I collapse on my bed and fall asleep before I can even think.
Ninety minutes later, feeling more rested, and with my ankles almost back to normal size, I change out of my work clothes, put on something more comfortable, and waddle out into a dark kitchen.
There’s no sign of Bug having even been here. No backpack in the corner. No cookies missing from the platter. But it’s almost seven. She should have been home by now.
I go back to the bedroom and get my phone. It’s now when I see the text.
Darla: Spending the night at Aunt Marti’s.
It’s not an unusual occurrence. Not even for a weeknight. And it happens at least once every time Asher is away, so I don’t really have a problem with it. Not that there’s anything I could do if I did. I just wish she didn’t feel the need to escape this house when her dad is gone. Maybe once the babies come she’ll want to spend more time at home.
Me: Thanks for the text. Your dad will be home by 4 tomorrow.
There’s no reply. Not even a thumb’s up. I wasn’t expecting one.
Still, I sit and stare for a moment, wishing the three dots in the bubble would show up and just once she’d acknowledge my text.
Waiting on the bacon to cook, I watch as Darla gets a Ziploc bag from a drawer, throws in a granola bar and a banana, and tucks it into her backpack.
I get money from my purse. “Here.” I put twenty dollars on the table. “In case your dad forgot to give you lunch money.”
She looks at it but doesn’t take it. “Nobody pays with cash. He puts money into an account at school. Believe me, there’s plenty.”
I cock my head. “You don’t like school food? I don’t remember it being particularly horrible.”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. Haven’t tried it.”
I stir the eggs, not wanting to seem overly interested in the conversation because that will usually put an end to it. “Well, ifyou do, just don’t try the pizza. Anything but that. Unless it’s a Tuesday and they order in bulk from a pizza chain. Do they still do that on Tuesdays?”
She shrugs again. “Don’t know. I’ve never been in the cafeteria.”
“Never?” I turn as my eyes bug out. Then I catch myself and spin back around, making myself busy so I appear much less interested than I actually am.
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t dare push. I just put out the food and start eating.
“It’s pointless to go. Christian and I don’t even have the same lunch. He has lunch A and I have lunch B. School pretty much sucks all around because we only have one class together.”
“If you don’t go to the cafeteria, where do you eat?”
“Courtyard mostly. But when it gets cold I’ll be scoping out other places.”
“What about the girls from the soccer team? Can’t you eat with them?”
She scoffs air through her nose. “Right. Those.” She takes a strip of bacon and shoves the entire thing in her mouth. “They’re still trying to decide if they like me.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case. They just need time to warm up to you. Because I’m here to tell you, anyone who knows you will like you, Darla.”
She stands, puts her coffee cup in the sink, takes another strip of bacon, and walks out the front door with her backpack.
Damn. I crossed the line into giving parenting advice. I should know by now how anytime that happens, she puts up the wall I’ve yet to penetrate.
We’ve had a few conversations. Mostly about things that don’t matter much. Like when we’re breaking ground on the pool or how Charlie did at T-ball. Conversations may be a stretch—it’s more like we share a few sentences here and there. But onething I’ve noticed is that she has been more respectful. Quiet and disengaging, but civil all the same. It happened after I fell into her room. I think she still feels guilty over it. I never told Asher, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t give me as much push-back as before.
I finish breakfast, clean up, and go to work, glad that it’s Thursday and Natasha is running the wedding this weekend. Because I’m definitely getting too big, too scatter-brained, and too damn exhausted for such large events.
~ ~ ~
After a long day at work, I go right from the garage into the bedroom, only stopping to pee before I collapse on my bed and fall asleep before I can even think.
Ninety minutes later, feeling more rested, and with my ankles almost back to normal size, I change out of my work clothes, put on something more comfortable, and waddle out into a dark kitchen.
There’s no sign of Bug having even been here. No backpack in the corner. No cookies missing from the platter. But it’s almost seven. She should have been home by now.
I go back to the bedroom and get my phone. It’s now when I see the text.
Darla: Spending the night at Aunt Marti’s.
It’s not an unusual occurrence. Not even for a weeknight. And it happens at least once every time Asher is away, so I don’t really have a problem with it. Not that there’s anything I could do if I did. I just wish she didn’t feel the need to escape this house when her dad is gone. Maybe once the babies come she’ll want to spend more time at home.
Me: Thanks for the text. Your dad will be home by 4 tomorrow.
There’s no reply. Not even a thumb’s up. I wasn’t expecting one.
Still, I sit and stare for a moment, wishing the three dots in the bubble would show up and just once she’d acknowledge my text.
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