The longer I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I’m right. Who am I to deny fate?
Who am I to … not be me?
Fuck it.
I grab my phone and make some calls.
Sixteen
Jaxi
“That’s beautiful, Rosie,” I say as I hold up her latest and greatest fingerpaint masterpiece.
She squishes up her nose. The joy in her face makes my day.
“Do you know what it is?” she asks.
“Why don’t you tell me,” I suggest.
“Okay. That’s our house,” she says, pointing at a yellow blob streaked with brown in the middle of the paper. “And that’s me, and that’s Mommy, and that’s you, and that’s Wade.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Wade? Okay. Awesome.”
She shakes with excitement. “And that’s the guy who looks like Boone. And that’s my puppy. And that’s Boone!”
Her grin takes up her entire face.
Sunlight streams in the windows, filling the kitchen with a cheeriness and a warmth that settle into my soul. Mindless chatter plays on the television in the corner, and it’s the kind of ambience I always hoped to have in a home.
“Boone’s kind of tall, don’t you think?” I ask, looking at the purple line she pointed at that extends from the top of the page to the bottom.
“Yup. Because he’s tall and strong. Like this.” She flexes muscles that she doesn’t have. “Grrr …”
“Oh, boy,” I say, stepping back. “Those are some big muscles.”
She drops her arms. “I know.”
“I know it’s a good thing this is washable because you’re a mess,” I tell her, poking at a glob of green paint in her bangs.
“I’m a mess, I’m a mess, I’m a mess,” she sings, bouncing around her chair. “Can I do another one?”
I grab another piece of printer paper and set it in front of her. And, because I’m a quick learner, I attach two pieces of tape to it and secure the paper to the table.
“Knock yourself out, kiddo,” I say.
I head to the sink and rinse my hands. She sings what I suspect is a cartoon theme song as I pluck a couple of sections of paper towels off the roll. My phone rings on the counter, and I see Libby’s name on the screen.
I press the green button. “Hello?”
“Hey, you.”
Her voice is thick with exhaustion and sounds like she’s been crying. I’m sure she has. I was just hoping that she was in a different, maybe easier, phase of grief by now.
“How are you doing?” I ask her.
She laughs, but there’s no amusement in the sound. “I’m alive. Does that count for anything?”
“Sure does. Some days that’s a victory in and of itself,” I say, watching Rosie nearly tip over a jar of pink paint.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you. Between calls with my attorney, messages from Ted asking that we handle this civilly,” she says, mocking his tone, “crying fits, and the standing date I have with cinnamon rolls from the bakery on the corner from eight to ten every morning—I’ve been a little busy.”
“Well, I have intentionally not called you because I wanted to give you some space. I figured your hands were full, and you would call me if you needed me. I hope you enjoyed my encouraging texts.”
She laughs. This time, it’s a little livelier. “I considered mailing a box of spiders to her house after your suggestion the other night, but my attorney wasn’t a fan.”
“I didn’t know you were running my ideas of revenge through your attorney. That takes the fun out of it.”
She snorts.
I open the fridge and take out a roast that Siggy brought or had delivered when they were here last weekend. I spent all morning looking up recipes to use this hunk of meat and finally found one that feels doable. I also find it convenient that Siggy bought everything I needed to fix it.
I grin as I think of Boone’s mother. I’ve never known anyone like her.
“What does your attorney say—besides the spiders?” I ask, grabbing the carrots and celery out of the fridge too. “Surely, you’ll be set up, considering he’s the one who screwed up.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I contemplate how happy I am that I haven’t seen Ted around since the news of the affair. Or maybe he’s lucky that I haven’t seen him. According to Chuck, I have a violent streak. I personally think it’s just called low tolerance for assholes, and Ted is definitely one of those.
I glance at Rosie to see if she’s listening. She’s not.
“He promises me I will be. They call him the Rottweiler or kingpin or bulldog or some kind of aggressive name. He says he’s going after Ted’s balls.”
“Take a finger or two for good measure,” I say, finding the bag of potatoes I saw earlier today.
“I wonder if Ted ever went back home,” she says. “I have a suspicion that Kimmy was meeting him in California, but that’s just a hunch.”