“I show up,” I shoot back.
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly.
“Would you look at that, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, clapping my hands. “Doc smiles.”
Dr. Devine ignores me. A few seconds pass as she considers her next question. As luck would have it, the timer on her phone dings.
“Until next time,” she says.
Relief washes over me.
Saved by the bell.
Chapter Six
Delilah
I stare at the clock on my cell phone. As usual, my ex-husband is late to pick up our daughter. He promised Max he would take her to a Washington Capitals game. The game starts in ten minutes. He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls or texts. I hate that Max has to endure this constant disappointment from her father. And I have to sit here, helpless and unable to do anything to make this night better for her.
Ted is a giant asshole. He only ever cared about how we made him look. His political career takes precedence over every part of his life. Fortunately, Max has yet to realize Ted is fifteen minutes late. I’ve kept her busy, hoping Ted is just his usual fashionably late.
Max moves across the living room with her plastic hockey stick in hand. She has a look of determination on her adorable face as she slaps the puck across the carpet. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t let her play sports in the house. But I’m hoping this will keep her occupied until Ted bothers to show his face.
“Mommy, watch!” Max’s face brightens, and her smile reaches up to her big, blue eyes.
“I’m watching, baby. Let me see your slapshot.”
Max giggles. “Daddy taught me this.”
Ted is a huge Washington Capitals fan. Max also loves hockey, probably because it’s one of the few things her dad does with her. Ted is usually too busy at work to spare any of his free time for anything other than hockey. He’s never understood how to bond with Max. She’s a brilliant ten-year-old girl with a quirky personality. Most of the time, Max acts and sounds more like an adult than a child. She has more energy and smarts in her tiny body than all of the adults I know.
Max pulls her stick back, eyes focused on the puck, and takes her best shot. The puck sails through the net. My girl is more like her father, rough around the edges, an
d not afraid to get her hands dirty.
Max drops her stick to the floor and squeals, throwing her hands above her head. “She shoots, and she scores,” she yells as she takes her victory lap across the living room.
I can’t help but laugh at her display. My daughter is one of a kind. Pretty soon, she starts youth ice hockey. The thought of Max getting hurt terrifies me.
She crawls across the carpet and reaches into the net. “Max Fairchild for the win,” she says, holding the puck in the air.
“Great game, baby,” I say with the biggest smile. “You’re going to sweep the competition.”
She grins so wide it reaches up to her eyes.
When I found out I was pregnant, Max was the first name that popped into my head. I initially thought she was a boy. With how I carried her, everyone thought she would be, too. And when I saw her, I knew that Max—not Maxine—was the perfect name for her.
Max takes another lap around the living room and then stops in front of the couch. She grabs my shoulder, using it as support as she jumps on the cushions.
“Max,” I choke out. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that?”
Max launches herself into my arms, tilting her head back on my lap, laughing like a hyena. “Daddy lets me do this at his house. We play Gladiators.”
I hold my tongue when it comes to Daddy and his ideas about parenting. As a psychologist, I know that bad-mouthing Max’s father doesn’t do anything for either of us. He has rules at his house, and I have mine.
“Okay, baby, but we’re not at Daddy’s house.” I kiss the top of her blonde head, and she giggles, squirming in my arms. “And we don’t jump on the furniture here.”
She rolls onto her side and peeks up at me with the same blue eyes as mine. “Whatever you say, Mommy.” Max gives me one of her lopsided grins. “Can I have chocolate chip cookies?