Nova’s eyes widen. “You can make skirts?”
“She sews,” Mom whispers, elbowing me in the side. “Not many girls sew these days, Noah.”
“Yes, Mom, I heard her.” Shaking my mom off, I watch Lennon to see what she’ll say.
“I can make just about anything you can wear.”
Nova’s eyes widen. “Really?”
Lennon nods.
“Can you make princess dresses?”
“I make the best princess dresses. The kind with lots of sparkles and a skirt that flares out when you twirl.”
“Those are my favorite kind,” Nova says, twirling on the kitchen floor. “Can you make me one?”
“Nova—” I warn.
“I’d love to,” Lennon says, interrupting me.
“Can you paint my nails, too? Oh, and do my hair? But not like yours. Yours is messy.”
“Nova, that wasn’t nice,” I warn.
“It’s okay.” Lennon runs her fingers through her hair. “I did just wake up. I’m sure it’s a disaster.”
“Did you stay the night with my daddy?”
Lennon’s eyes open wide when she realizes her mistake. “I, uh…” she sputters.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother trying not to laugh. I elbow her in the side before pulling up a seat next to Lennon.
Shit.
How do you explain something like this?
I glance at Lennon for help, but she grabs a glass of juice off the table and takes a sip.
I swallow and turn to Nova. She’s watching me with big doe eyes, and I can feel the weight of Lennon’s as well. “Lennon and I had a little sleepover last night. Kinda like when you have Marybeth come over and play, except Lennon stayed the night.”
“But Lennon’s a girl.” Nova looks at me, then at Lennon. “And you’re a boy.”
Lennon nearly chokes on her juice, and I reach an arm out, patting her back several times. “Well, sweetheart—”
“Does that mean I can have Davis stay the night?” Nova asks, referring to a little boy on her soccer team.
“Absolutely not.” No way in hell. I hate to break it to Nova, but she won’t be having co-ed sleepovers until she’s at least twenty-five.
Nova frowns. “That’s not fair.”
The buzzer on the stove goes off, and my mother, like usual, saves the day. “Come on, sweetie. Help me put icing on the cinnamon rolls.” With a hand to Nova’s back, she guides her toward the oven.
“Do I get to lick the spoon?”
“Not if I get to it first,” Dad says, pretending to race Nova across the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry.” Lennon turns toward me and places a hand on my leg. “I wasn’t thinking when I said that.”