Pocketful of Sand

“You can? And just how do you think you can tell, Smartypants?”

“You look at him funny.”

“Funny how?”

She giggles. “I don’t know. Like you want him to hold your hand.”

“I do?”

She nods, still smiling.

“Well, we weren’t talking about me, now were we?”

She turns back to her search. I’m content to let the subject drop. Maybe it’s not the right time to ask.

“Why did he stop coming over?”

She doesn’t turn back around when she asks, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to have to worry about my expression.

“Some of his family came to town. He’s busy with them.”

“Will he come back when they leave?”

“I don’t know,” I hedge, hating to lie to my daughter. Although I can’t be absolutely positively certain that he won’t. So it’s not really a lie.

“Do you want him to?”

“Yes.” My answer is reflexive. I want him to more than anything. But he can’t. And I can’t let him. That’s all that matters.

“When are you taking me to see Santa?” she asks, giving me a way out of this suddenly uncomfortable subject.

“How about tonight? Jordan said he’d be at Bailey’s all week.”

Within seconds, Emmy is up on her feet, dancing her way over to where I sit in the chair. She throws her body against mine, winding her arms around my neck and squeezing as hard as she can. “You’re the best momma in the world!”

“Only because you’re the best daughter in the world,” I reply, pressing my face into her shampoo-scented hair.

Emmy pulls back enough to look at me, her nose less than two inches from mine. “I’m glad I’m not the only one that makes you happy anymore. That made me worry.”

That made her worry?

She’s so mature for her age sometimes that it makes me worry.

“You don’t ever need to worry about me, babydoll. Ever.”

She nods and smiles, but I can tell my words don’t affect her at all. Whatever the reason she’s been so focused on my happiness lately is still plaguing her. I can see it in the sad way she watches me.

“I love you, Emmaline,” I whisper, rubbing my nose against hers.

“Love you, too, Momma.” She hops off my lap as quickly as she hopped on. “When can we leave?”

“How about right after supper? I’ll call Jordan just to make sure he’ll be there.”

She bounces and twirls away, singing something about seeing Santa Claus and getting all her wishes this year. Hopefully at least one of us will get all her wishes this year. I’m pretty sure mine are too far gone.

â??â??â??â??

Emmy wanted to stand in line by herself, just her and the other kids. She isn’t sucking her thumb, but of course she hasn’t said a word to anyone either.

She’s had her list made out to Santa for a week. She brought it with her so that she won’t have to tell him if she doesn’t feel like talking, which we both know she most likely won’t. That was her idea, not mine. She’s so self-aware sometimes, like she knows what’s better for her, how she’s feeling and progressing, than I do.

“She sure is a pretty little girl,” Jason says from my left. He hasn’t been more than arm’s length away since we got here. “And talkative, too.” He elbows me and laughs at his own joke. Before my bristling can make its way to my tongue and lash out in the form of a cutting remark, he recovers. Somewhat. “I’m just kidding. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s just so quiet.”

And you’re just such an asshole, I add silently. I don’t know why I’m surprised that his teasing is mean. That seems to be the way he is with everyone except me. And I can imagine why I’m exempt. Something about the mystery that lies within my panties, I’m sure.

“She talks when she’s comfortable,” I explain mildly, not even glancing up at him. I’m afraid I won’t be able to fight the urge to slap his smug face.

“I’ll just have to come around more often so she can get comfortable with me then. Since Cole’s not coming around anymore,” he adds, slipping his arm around my waist and squeezing.

I grit my teeth and say nothing. I don’t know how he knows what’s going on between Cole and me, or if he’s just taking wild shots in the dark. But it doesn’t matter. It’s none of his business and I refuse to respond.

“I thought you were pretty fond of your arms,” comes an achingly familiar voice from behind us. Jason and I both turn at the same time to find Cole standing less than a foot away. His electric blue eyes are trained on Jason, his expression as cold as his tone.

“Didn’t see a ‘taken’ sign on her, Cole,” he says, unaffected.

“I didn’t see a ‘touch this’ sign on her either,” Cole replies steadily.

“She can speak for herself. If she doesn’t want me around, all she has to do is say so.”

“If you’d take the hint, she wouldn’t have to,” Cole growls.

“I think you’re overstepping your bounds a little here, brother,” Jason says, taking a step toward Cole.

Cole doesn’t budge, and I can see why. He’s so tall and he tops Jason by at least three inches. Probably outweighs him, too, by at least thirty pounds of sheer muscle.