Battle

“Touché,” he laughs. “I had her pegged for a real estate agent.”

Of all the irony. “Marty’s the real estate agent.”

“Oh.” His cheeks flame red, which is adorable.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Oh, no you don’t! What?”

“I was gonna say, pole dancer.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m kiddin’.”

He may or may not have been kidding, but it feels great to see him laugh.

I give him instructions and we get started, separating paperwork into piles of bank and credit card statements, tax returns, financial statements, and monies to be deposited, including a few grand in cash. I call Ginger who agrees to meet us at the Savings and Loan on Main Street at four-o’clock.

While looking over statements, I laugh silently as I catch Battle chewing nervously on a toothpick. Why does it have to be such a sexy habit? I mean, if he picked his nose, or chewed with his mouth open it would be easier to ignore how attracted I am to him.

I notice the signature of the preparer, Gerald McCoy. Battle’s father is McCoys Chief Financial Officer. He managed Battle’s trust. I wonder about the bad blood between Battle and his father, but don’t ask. Their relationship has no relevancy in my managing his portfolio. His life perplexes me more now that I know about his father. He could leave this town and escape his father, but he stays. “Can I ask you somethin’?” I ask hesitantly.

“Sure.”

“Why do you stick around here? You have more than enough points to qualify for the national tour. Why stay local?”

His expression turns solemn as he takes the toothpick out of his mouth. He tosses it in the trash before answering, “I stay for Erinn.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask, although, I don’t understand. Erinn has parents, and it’s not like he’d be gone year round.

As if summoned, Erinn enters the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” she says, moving to the pantry. She grabs several bags of fruit snacks.

Battle stands. “Put those back. I’ll make sandwiches.”

“I want these,” Erinn argues, holding the fruit packets to her chest.

Battle moves closer to her. “You may have one bag when you’re done with lunch.”

“I don’t want a sandwich!” Her bottom lip pops out. “I want the delicious chewy snacks made with real fruit juice and Vitamin C,” she says, her words either copied from a commercial or the front of the box.

“And you can have them after you eat a sandwich,” Battle says, reaching for the snacks.

The bags fall to the ground as Erinn flails her arms and screams, “No!” She kneels down to pick them up, chanting. “Delicious fruity snacks.”

Battle fists his hands in his hair, his patience visibly evaporating. I feel bad for him.

“Hey, Erinn,” I say. “I love fruit snacks. Can you show me what kind you have there?”

I glance up at Battle who doesn’t appear to be upset with my interjecting. He mouths, thank you and gets lunch meat from the fridge.

She giggles, bursting with excitement as she brings the bags to the island. After deliberately lining them up in a neat row, she points at each bag. “Berrylicious berry, tropical explosion, and citrus melody.”

“Oh, I’ve never had the tropical ones before. Are they good?”

“They’re my favorite,” she sings, her big brown eyes sparkling. “You can enjoy them on the go or include them in your kid’s lunches. They’re only eighty calories per serving and contain one-hundred percent of the daily recommended Vitamin C. And they’re made with real fruit juice.”