I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. “I, uh, haven’t seen you around the fire station, you know, volunteering.”
Her smile wanes and she glances toward the game. “Yeah, I… didn’t get the job I wanted. Shucks.”
“Interesting.” I rub my chin. “I could have sworn you were more than qualified.”
She shifts her weight and twists the same strand of hair around her finger. I wonder if it’s as silky as it looks. “Well, you know, things happen.”
“I’m sure I could find you another job at the station, if that’s where your heart is set.” I smirk at her. I’m not sure what game we are playing—the intimidation game? Whatever it is, I’m winning.
She studies my face. I can hear her excuses already. “Oh, you must have misunderstood. I didn’t get the maintenance job, but Iwillbe working at the fire station.”
My own confidence falters. “What?”
She pushes her hair over her left shoulder, drawing my attention to the freckles there. She only has a few on her shoulders but her cheeks are littered with them. I can’t help but wonder just how many there are.
“Oh yes. I’m so excited. I think it will be lots of fun.”
I frown. “Working at a fire station isn’t fun. It’s a job. A serious one.” Something I’m not sure this woman knows how to be. Nobody volunteers for a job just for fun. I didn’t. I did it out of duty. And maybe guilt.
She angles her body closer to me. Every inch of my skin is aware of how close we are and it’s unnerving. I don’t want to feel anything, toward anyone.
It’s irritation. That’s it.
Her smile is back and more infuriatingly beautiful than ever. “I guess I’ll have to find that out for myself.” She prepares to leave, then turns around. “Did you like the churros?” Her eyes sparkle and if I wasn’t so frustrated with her, I’d find it enchanting.
I knew it. I knew it was a joke.
Her eyes dart to my chest. “Nice shirt,” she says, and spins on her heel.
Huh?
I look down at my shirt. It takes me a full ten seconds to make out the words and graphics stretched across my chest from this angle. Underneath a pencil, calculator, and a ruler are the words, “Weapons of Math destruction.”
Thanks a lot, Jeremy.
Eight
Lyndi
It’ssixa.m.ona Saturday, and I’m wearing real clothes. Not tummy-tucking leggings—which by the way are the real MVPs of motherhood—and an equally baggy t-shirt, but real suck-the-life-out-of-me skinny jeans.
“I’m so proud of you,” Maddie says, pretending to wipe tears from her eyes. “You’re so grown up.”
“Oh, shut it,” I grumble, looking for a clean mug. “Why do mornings have to come so early every freaking day?” I stayed up until midnight last night searching for jobs, but I have yet to find one I’m qualified for.
Maddie snickers. “Want the long answer or the short?”
“Neither, obviously.” I turn up empty on the mug search and grab a granola bar instead. “Unless one explanation comes with a donut.”
Maddie frowns at my poor attempt at a healthy breakfast. “Are you really going to eat that first thing in the morning?”
I fix her with a stare. “Do you want the long answer or the short?”
She rolls her eyes, and I walk around the kitchen in search of my purse. How do I lose everything in this tiny apartment? But more importantly, why did I have to be as stubborn as Ward? I egged him on at the soccer game. He’s a level-ten grump and it’s just too tempting. I want to irritate him until he has no choice but to crack.
It usually works on Crew.
But Ward is like a shot of caffeine. Once I’ve tasted what it’s like to threaten his ego, I need more to keep me buzzed.
