Long, salmon-colored talons click the ceramic as Mrs. Jameson flashes me her teeth, her lips hardly stretching through the obvious Botox. “Good morning, Mr. Denison. It’s a shame we’ll be saying goodbye after today.”
Because I was such a happy little ray of sunshine while I was here.
Palming the nape of my neck, I clear my throat, my mind calculating the number of times I told her to “fuck off” under my breath—pretty sure it was a lot. “Yeah, I appreciate the work. Hit me up if you need anything else.”
“I’ll do that.”
Implication bleeds from her pretentious pores, and I cringe internally.
And outwardly.
Owen pipes up, rocking on the heels of his light-up Batman sneakers. “Maybe you can babysit me sometime, Parker. We could make model cars and watch movies.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Mrs. Jameson agrees.
Shit. It’s a miracle I’ve kept my dog alive this long. I nod through a tight-lipped smile, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
“Can I show you the new car I made? Before you start work?”
I glance at Owen’s mother for approval, and she tips her head towards the winding staircase, causing Owen to squeal with elation, urging me to follow. When we reach his bedroom, he throws himself onto the bed where a new creation rests, the mattress bouncing with his weight. I linger in the doorway for a moment, a sentimental sort of feeling washing over me as I drink in his childlike glee and red, chubby cheeks.
“Do you like it?” Owen holds up the neon orange car with little black wheels, zooming it through the air and making whooshing sounds. “I think it’s my favorite.”
“Yeah, bud. It’s really good.”
“I thought you’d like it. Friends usually like the same stuff.”
My mouth twitches in reply.
Sunlight scatters along the bedspread, illuminating Owen’s tangerine masterpiece like a spotlight, and I observe the time and care given to such a prized achievement. The meticulous paint lines. The perfectly placed wheels. The little tiger stripe design on the side, etched into the woodgrains with precision. My skin prickles with warmth. “You worked hard on that. I can tell.”
Owen bobs his chin in agreement, his tawny eyes shimmering with pride. He swipes his matching bangs off his forehead, then wheels the toy car across the bed covers like it’s a race track. “Yep, it took me all month. It broke three times before I got it just right.”
I swallow. “Yeah?”
He nods, still focused on his task as he winds the car in circles, spinning around on his knobby knees. “I couldn’t give up. I knew it would be worth it if I just tried really hard to put it back together,” he tells me distractedly. “There were tons of little pieces, so it took a lot of work. I stayed up way past my bedtime some nights.”
A surge of correlation unfurls beneath my ribs, causing me to fluster. I start to internalize the fuck out of his words, applying them to my own mess.
“Do you think it’s worth it?”
Blinking out of my haze, I glance up at the car that Owen holds up, high and mighty. A beloved trophy. A treasure. It twinkles in the glimmering streaks of daylight leaking in through partially-open blinds, and a sigh escapes me as I whisper back softly, “Yeah… it’s definitely worth it.”
A few hours later, I’m packing up the last of my supplies and slipping into my boots after saying a final farewell to Owen. Mrs. Jameson prances into the grand foyer that gleams with tinsel and jewels, stopping me before I reach the door.
“Mr. Denison,” she calls out, her bare feet scuffing along the hardwood floors. A champagne flute dangles from her manicured hand. “I just wanted to thank you.”
“Uh, yeah, it’s not a problem.”
Thanks for the huge ass tip.
“No, I mean for the joy you’ve brought to my son during your time here.”
My muscles cramp as I reach the front door, stalling my steps. I feel my heart clench at her words, but I’m not sure how to reply, so I just glance up, swallowing back the growing lump in my throat.
She softens before me, her bristly exterior peeling away to reveal a caring mother beneath all the glamour and gimmicks. Light brown eyes dance golden beneath the glow of the chandelier, and she spears me with genuine gratitude. “Owen told me you helped stick up for him against the neighbor boy. I didn’t even know…” Mrs. Jameson sighs wearily, flipping a swathe of auburn hair over one shoulder. “My husband is always away on business, and I’m… distracted a lot. It opened my eyes to all the things I’ve been missing, you know? Anyway, not to get all sappy on you, but Owen has always been a sensitive, introverted child. He keeps to himself. It’s been difficult finding him friendships, and I thought Brody was a good influence… I didn’t realize my son was being bullied.”
I drink in her words, my teeth gnashing together as I choke back the waves of sentiment. My eyes skim her face, searching for fakery, for guile, but all I see is a woman who wants to do better. There’s a noticeable hitch in my tone as I respond, “Sure. He’s a good kid.”
“He is, truly. Thank you for seeing that,” she says. “Thank you for seeing him.”
My tight, emotion-infused nod sees her off, but she stops me one more time before I can slip out.
“One more thing, if you will… I’d love to have a way for my son to keep in touch if that’s not too much to ask. Letters or e-mails, perhaps? It would be a beneficial outlet for him, I think.”
“Oh, uh…” Sifting through my pockets for a pen and paper that don’t exist, I find myself agreeing to the suggestion. “Yeah, why not?”
Mrs. Jameson skips over to a decorative side table, snatching a pen and stationary pad from the drawer, then shuffles them over to me. “Wonderful. He’ll be so excited to have a pen pal.”
A pen pal.
I can’t help the grin from tipping my lips at the notion.
Nothing could possibly go wrong there.
“Sounds good,” I say, scribbling my information onto the floral notepad and handing it back. I glance down at my handwriting before Mrs. Jameson plucks it from my fingertips and folds it in half, smiling her thanks.
When the sun hovers low in the cloudless sky later that day, I pull up to the front of her house and kill the engine. Hesitation and doubt keep me rooted to the seat for a solid twenty minutes before I work up the courage to climb her front steps, and then it takes me another five minutes to actually knock.
I’m goddamn clueless.
Should I have flowers? Chocolates or some shit?
An epic speech?
Shit. I need an epic speech.
But it’s too late, because my knuckles rap twice against the steel yellow door, a sunny contradiction to my thrumming anxiety, and her footsteps echo all around me.
Melody opens the door, the remnants of a smile kissing her perfect mouth, and when she sees me standing here, her lips thin. Her smile fades. Her eyes flash with surprise, glinting a stormy shade of green beneath her porch light. “Parker,” she says in a startled breath.
I observe the way she peeks over her shoulder, like she’s wary or nervous, then sneaks outside to join me on the porch. My eyes peer through the door crack with cautious curiosity. “You have company?”