Hate You Not

“I think we’ve gotta be going. Burke will drop us off at home. You two can nap, and I’ll have some June time, and then we’ll get ready for the rodeo.”

I smile down at her, because when she seems pissed at me, I think I find her even hotter than I usually do. “June time?”

“Yes.” She looks at me with her mouth pinched, batting her lashes like a malfunctioning doll. “Time to center myself. Sometimes I do yoga.”

“They do yoga down here?”

“I don’t know who ‘they’ is, but I definitely do yoga. In fact, I teach a yoga class at the community center every Saturday. What about you, Uncle Burke?” She folds her arms. “Do you do yoga?”

“I can get down with the downward dogs.”

I look down, mostly to look away from June, and I find tears on Margot’s cheeks. “Oh no, buddy. Uh, buddy girl,” I correct.

That makes her giggle.

“You’re not buddy, are you?”

She shakes her head then wipes her eyes. “What are you, then?” I ask. “Little sistah?”

She gives me her kid version of a what-the-fuck look. Then she heaves a deep sigh. “You’re so weird.” She wipes her eyes again, and I ask, “What’s the matter?”

Her lip trembles, and I pick her up. I don’t know why. I used to carry her around more a few years back, before I got so busy with work. It feels natural, but she’s heavier now.

I pretend I’m swaying. “Whoooaaa! When did you get so heavy?”

“I’m not heavy. Maybe you’ve lost…energy or something.”

“What?” I feign shock.

“Superheroes can lose energy, you know.”

“And I’m a superhero, right,” I nod, “so that makes sense.”

“You’re not a superhero,” Oliver says.

“Oh yeah I am. I’m Captain Burke.”

I hear a snort, and I assume it came from June, who’s slightly behind me as I sway like a tree in the wind under Margot’s pretend weight.

“You are a superhero.” Margot wraps her arms around my neck, and I start walking, stumbling zombie-style toward the rental car.

I wrap her closer to me with one arm and then dip down and give a low roar.

“It’s the crazy ape again,” Oliver cries.

I keep it up until the crazy ape has deposited both kids into the car’s small back seat. June won’t look at me as she buckles Margot. She slides into the passenger’s seat and says, “Go straight to my house,” as if there’s grave danger I might go somewhere else.

“Damn,” I murmur, snapping my fingers. “Wanted to go rob the bank.”

“Team Greedy,” she mutters dryly, sliding her shades off her face so she can rub her eyes.

“You got a headache?”

“Can’t imagine why I would,” she says drolly.

“I’m Team Minimize,” I say as I turn up the radio and fade it to the back of the car. “Just for the record.”

She snorts. “Oh yeah.” She lets her gaze rake over me and pulls her ponytail out of her hair. I can’t see what she’s doing to it—my eyes are on the road—but I can sense her messing with it.

“I like your hair.” I don’t know why I say it. What is this, the fucking salon?

“I care a whole awful lot.”

I swallow. Guess I asked for that. But I can turn the tides again. Fuck, I’ve gotta try a little harder, but I still think maybe I can charm her. “You a Seuss fan?”

“What?”

“Well you said the phrase ‘a whole awful lot.’”

“Yes, as a descriptor of how much I care what you think about my hair. That was sarcasm, by the way. I don’t even give one shit.” She’s whisper-hissing so the kids don’t hear.

“What did I do to earn this kind of ire? I can’t even compliment your hair?”

“Are you gay or a cosmetologist?” she chirps.

“Uh, no. Why?” Inwardly, I’m cringing, though. It really was a weird comment for me to make.

“If you’re not, then that was a come-on. Even if it was reflexive. I don’t want a come-on from you. Ever. I don’t even want to ride in this car with you right now. I wish you would drop us off and not come to the rodeo. Just go back to where you came from. But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

I swallow. “I’m not.”

“So we’re not friends. And I don’t care if you think my hair is nice—which it is. When I was a kid, a model scout in the mall tried to get me to try out for a shampoo commercial.”

Holy shit—I knew it! It’s shampoo commercial hair. I smirk to myself at my prescience. Or postscience. Whatever that would be called.

“You think that’s funny?” she demands. “That a farm girl like me—a farmer—could be scouted as a model?”

“No. Why would I think it’s funny?”

“You were smirking.”

“No I wasn’t.” I stop at a red light and give her a look that says “I’m innocent.”

“You’re so full of crud,” she says.