Page 29

Evie

"The kids won't listen to me."

We're in the break room, and that plaintive cry for help you just heard came from our newest hire, Lance. The truth is, any preschool teacher worth her salt has experienced this hair-pulling moment.

It's a challenge to gain children's attention and hold it.

"I really want to do this!"

Awwws go up from around the room. The more experienced teachers crowd around him, offering advice and support. One theme resonates: earn the children's trust. When the teachers finally let Lance come up for air, I give an awkward wave of my fingers to add my support.

Lance grabs his book and pen. "How to earn the trust of a three-year-old and less?"

He words it like he's asking how to climb Mount Everest twice. But still, his questions and willingness to learn are a good sign.I'veseen so many good teachers quit.

As a teacher, you never know whose life you might change. There might be that one kid waiting for you and you alone.

My co-workers don't disappoint as they eviscerate his questions like a predator tackling prey.

"Wow."Lance sounds overwhelmed. "Talk to their parents and observe them to understand and identify their interests. Get dirty and wounded learning their games and playing with them."

Before I can stop them, they crowd him again, speaking over each other and displaying their 'battle scars.'It's an unusual sight having respectable preschool teachers baring body parts. I don't even want to imagine what we look like right now. More importantly, I can't have a parent or our director walking in on such a scandalous sight.

When a teacher pulls up her skirt to show a cut inside her thigh, I rush to close the break room door.

Later, I find Lance when he's looking less like a dress turned inside out and more like his cheerful self. He has his bag slung over his shoulder, all set to leave. I love that he's our only male teacher and loves the kids.

I give him a friendly smile. "You were brave out there."

"No." He shakes his head quickly. "And I feel so guilty."

"Don't,"I tell him. "It might be that this isn't the right age class for you. It happens."

"But I love kids. Their innocence and sincerity."

"Yes." I get it.

"Can you believe one of my nieces told me I smell like yuck?"

"How old?"I ask, laughing at the mischief in his eyes.

"Three. See, I've been doing babysitting duty like since they were born, and you know, sometimes I'll rip a tiny fart out."

"Oh, no."

Lance nods, eyes dancing merrily. "But this one time, her sense of smell is ready and waiting to embarrass me."His tone changes to mimic a three-year-old. "You smell like yuck."

We laugh so hard my eyes tear. "Honestly,"I say when I catch my breath. "It's not enough to like kids. When you get annoyed for no reason, and you hate coming to school, consider another age group. Teaching should be fun."

"You guys are the best. Thank you."He nods towards the black car parked at the curb. "That you?"

"Do you need a ride?"I ask him.

“Nah. My girl is picking me up."

We exchange 'see you tomorrows', and I go to my brother. I had almost forgotten Charlie's offer to watch Wild's game together. Honestly? All I want to do is eat and sleep. But it's been a while since I went out with just Charlie.

"I want to talk to you before we leave,"he says before I buckle in.

And this is what I was afraid of. Charlie rarely has time to chitchat. So, when he offered to take me to the game, I knew something was up. But did I listen to my spidey senses? No, because I wanted to catch the game between the North Cats and their bitter rivals.

"Okay."

I agree because he loves me. We are both victims of our father's philandering lifestyle and Mrs. Langford's icy dislike, and Charlie always made sure to look out for me. If he has something to say, I will hear him out.

"Wild is my best mate,"he starts without preamble.

I narrow my eyes, wondering where all the cheerleading for Wild is coming from. "Did he put you up to this?"

"How is it going with him?"he asks me seriously. "Good?"

My tongue is burning with a dozen retorts. Even more annoying, a part of me finds his support for his best friend cute. "It's none of your business."

Charlie's eyebrow climbs higher. "He's my best friend, and you're my precious sister. I think he will make the perfect brother-in-law—"

"You already see him as a brother; don't make it about me."I tell him.

"Then let's make it official."He frowns, then scratches his jaw. When he squirms in his seat, I dread the next words out of his mouth. "Don't you find him attractive enough?"

Oh, my goodness. I slide down my seat, praying to disappear like a puff of smoke. "Charlie?"

"Eh?"

"Stop, I beg you."

But my brother's jaw clenches with determination, and I know this conversation is a punishment for every sinful thought I've ever had in my head.

"I know he's not perfect, but you have your drawbacks too. Think of it in terms of profits and losses. You have more to lose without him than—"

"This is not a business deal, Charlie. It's a relationship."

"You think it's all that different? Business transactions can have practical applications, too."

"Somebody save me."I cover my face with my hands. "Just stop, Charlie. How did Kristyn fall for you with this business deal talk?"

He smirks. "I told you it has practical application."

"Just kill me now."

◆◆◆

Me: Your husband is weird. I text Kristyn after the game.

Kristyn: He's your beloved brother, and he's not weird.

Almost immediately, she sends another one.

Kristyn: And until you enter a stable, enviable relationship, you have zero rights to judge my husband.

Wow.

Kristyn: Tell me, what did he do?

I shake my head at her valiant defense of her husband and swift about turn.

Me: Tell me again why you fell in love with him.

Kristyn: Will you believe me if I tell you he reminds me of those cold, unavailable romance heroes we love?

I glance at my brother in the driver seat. His blond hair falls over his forehead in a rough sweep. His brown eyes laugh at whatever Wild is saying from his tired sprawl on the passenger seat.

Me: Err, no.

Kristyn: Why did you play matchmaker then?

Ugh. I did not text my best friend to be called out. She's supposed to help me rein in her husband. I push my phone under my thighs and put my head against the car window.

I expect Charlie to take me home first since it's his car. But what does my matchmaking brother do? He drives himself to his house first, hands Wild his keys, and makes sure I change positions from the back seat to the front with Wild.

He leans down to whisper in my ear. "Remember what I said. More profit than losses. Be patient with him."

More profit than losses. Oh, I would like to be a fly on the wall for some of his intimate conversations with my best friend. I know it's a big mark in Wild's favor—a plus in the profit column—that his best friend trusts him with his sister, but can everyone just mind their business?

"What's that bruise on your leg?"

I look down at the light scrape, and all the talk of warrior scars roars back. Chuckling, I tell Wild, "Remember the new hire? Lance. I might have mentioned him. He reminds me of myself—"

"Oh." Wild stops the car in front of my house and leans forward to see the scrape better. "What's his name again? Nancy?"

I hit his iron-hard shoulder muscles. "Lance. So, he asked for tips, and everyone had suggestions, and somehow we ended up talking war wounds and scars."

"War wounds and scars?" Wild is already turning a greenish hue.

I point at my leg. "These tiny scrapes and bruises we sometimes get keeping up with the kids."

"If it's a part of the job, then you should visit the nurse more often."

"It's just a scrape," I say, burning with the urge to continue my gist.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. So, everyone in the break room--"

"Then why give me grief about my injuries?"

I throw up my hands in defeat. "Because those are career defining. Now, are you going to let me finish or not?"

His lips curl in a way that makes my stomach do a series of complicated gymnastic moves. "I'm willing to hear about your kids and the games you play minus Nancy. Think you can do that?"

Why is his unreasonable jealousy so attractive? Whatever is happening to my brain cells? "He has a girlfriend. And his name is Lance. How in heaven did you twist Lance into Nancy?"

Before he answers, a light knock on his window interrupts us. Still, Wild tells me, "Take care of that scrape if you don't want me sending a doctor over."

"Yes, sir." And I deliver a jaunty salute once his back is turned.

"I see you," he says, eyes on said reflection.

Ugh. I bring my hand down.

On the other side of the window, Mrs. Izaacs is wringing her hands. Her hair hangs limp around her face and shows signs she has been toying with it. My first thought goes to her grandson.

Then, “ Jackie!"

I can't get out of the car fast enough. I would have taken a nasty fall on my hands and knees if Wild hadn't pulled a 'freakish athlete' move and caught me in time. Did he jump over the car or something?

"Jackie's fine," Mrs. Izaacs quickly says in between scolding me for not being careful.

Wild cups both her shoulders and lightly rubs. "Then what's wrong? Is it Mr.—"

"Your sister is here," she blurts.

All the fear over Jackie or something happening to someone in the neighborhood hisses out of me like air stealing out from an overblown balloon.

Sarah’s here? Wild and I exchange identical looks of ‘that's not possible ’ . It shows how well he knows and understands me, but I don't have time to explore the thought further because a girl of about twelve joins us.

My sister. I don't recognize her. At first.

“Hi. My name is Ruth.”

But one look at the face and skin that looks a lot like mine, and I feel it. Instant tug .It slams between my breasts so hard I stagger from the force of it.

Wild is there, hand braced around my middle, holding me up.

The girl peeps at Mrs. Izaacs, defiant, fearful, and hopeful. She visibly takes a deep breath. "You know Shonda Richardson?"

I'm not breathing.

"She's my mother. So that makes you, my half-sister. I guess?”

What? “No.” I blurt.

The girl flinches. She’s just a teenager. Barely. “Sorry.”

I can’t look away from her natural hair tied in a sleek bun. How and why did she come here? And… “Shonda Richardson is really your mother?”

She twists her skirt around a finger, expression guarded. “Yes.”

◆◆◆

We're seated on the back porch. Or Wild is sitting. I'm practically on his lap. I have my head on his shoulder and my legs hanging over his. The pinkish evening clouds paint a stripe across the light day clouds. And I can feel and hear Wild's heartbeat under my palm.

His arms come around me in a brief, crushing hug. A surprised, overwhelmed sound, along with the memories of the past hour, slips out of me.

"I have a half-sister."

He rubs my back in comforting circles.

"Shonda Richardson," I repeat with some wonder.

Wild’s arms hold tight around me, and I know he's the only thing stopping me from crumbling into a million pieces.

He inches back, half of his features in shadow. "You're ready to talk?"

"I'm ready to date."

His hand on my back stops. "Date? Date who?"

"Who else?"My heart pounds, waiting for his answer. "The only man in my life is my fake fiancé.”

Wild gulps and hauls me back into his arms with a different kind of groan. It's deep but pained. "I'm honored, and I would have been pumping my fists and jumping—"

"Funny."

"But you need to talk about Shonda and that young girl waiting outside with Mrs. Izaacs."

His hand on my back and his arms around me feel so good. I don't want to leave and face reality, but a part of me has always known I can't escape my mother. Not entirely.

"Evie Cassandra."

I tip my head back to find Wild's eyes and fingers handling a lock of my hair. "I like your hair."

We don't talk for long moments. He holds me as we stare at each other. I would be content to stay like this, with Wild, forever. Impulsively, I do an awkward, noodle-like turn to throw my arms around him and return the hug. I want to give him a taste of the toasty, contentedness he just gave me, but Wild is just too broad across the shoulders for my arms.

I pull back my arm, a joke about the kind of food Carla fed him ready on the tip of my tongue when I catch the expression on his face. Pain. "Hey."Panic threads through my voice. "You're injured!"

"You feel good.”He mutters.

"Where's your phone? Let me call Richard."

I jump, all set to run off, but he catches my hand. "Wait. Physio already looked at it. I'm going to ice it later."

He pulls me back onto his lap, my back to his front. I try to relax against him, but I cannot. "Wild?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me go."

He releases me instantly.

I stand before him, my arms wrapped around myself. "I rarely sleep on a bed because Sarah took scissors to my hair while I was asleep."

Wild doesn't say a word, but he holds his hand out, and I place my hand in his. It feels like the final puzzle piece slotting into place.

"I was seven and so scared I couldn't stop crying. I found Shonda's address in Dad's office earlier that week. I ran away from home."

His hands spasmed around mine.

I talk faster to get it over with. "I ran to Shonda's house, and she had her new husband and a nice house, and I thought everything would be fine. I knocked, and she opened the door in her nightgown. And she was smiling, and she looked good. But when she saw me, she stopped smiling."

I swallow hard and tell the rest in a rush. "Her husband asked who was there, and she said no one. She didn't even ask if I had the money for the bus or how I came. I've not seen her since."

Wild brings my fingers to his lips and kisses each of my fingertips. My breath catches. It makes me feel treasured, precious, sweet.

As I watch, he does it again. And again.

“I was on my way home, and I was still holding the paper where I wrote down her address. And that's how Mrs. Langford found me."

Wild squeezes my fingers so tight I know I will see the imprint tomorrow.

"She held me while I cried,"I tell him, surprised all over again by the warmth of the usually cold woman.

"You're precious, you know that?"His voice vibrates with intensity.

We go quiet. His hands around mine are warm, almost fiery.

"About Sarah," he whispers.

"She only managed to get a chunk off, but it's something I've never forgotten."

I've heard all the excuses related to that incident.

Father: It's just a bit of hair, and you already have a lot of hair.

Sarah: I wanted to see what it feels like.

Seriously.

I didn't mention it to Mrs. Langford, but she heard about it somehow.

“Mrs. Langford made sure I got twenty neat, handwritten pages of apology from Sarah. And she got grounded. Then Mrs. Langford took me to her personal hairdresser."

Each of my fingertips gets another round of kisses. "Thank you for telling me."

I look down at his head bent almost in supplication towards me, and I feel a rush of gratitude and love, so much it's heady. Who cares if he changes his mind? Who cares if we break up later? Just sharing this moment, every second with him, is a miracle. I want to relish it..

Sorry, chant. It's time to let go.

As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Wild lifts his head. "You okay?"he asks.

"Very much okay,"I answer. "Thank you."

"No." His throat works, and his eyes burn "Thank you for being such...a good woman. You've been strong and enduring and..."

He punctuates his words with more fingertip kisses, and I melt into a puddle of goo. "Good girl,"he whispers.

Given how protective he is, I expect questions about why I haven't told him about this before now, why I bore the pain alone. There's none of that. I get compliments and finger kisses.

"Can I date you, Wilder Carrington? For like a week? Two weeks?”I add when his lips part in astonishment.

"What?"He shakes his head like he couldn't have heard me correctly. "Two weeks?"

"Or a month."I squeeze his lax fingers and release them. "Think about it and give me an answer by tomorrow."

"By tomorrow,"he repeats. "You want to date me for two weeks—"

"Or a month."

"And you want an answer by tomorrow?"

I let out a breath and smile at him. I want him to see how very much okay I am. "I'm ready to talk to her and drive her home. Do you mind taking a taxi back?"

He smiles back. "Not at all."