“Crazy bitch.”
He stomps down the hall in full temper tantrum, reminding me of Taylor when she feels the world has treated her unjustly. Eggie comes racing over, barking like mad, tail wagging in excitement about this new, interesting person in the house, wanting to get to know him better. Is he a head patter or a belly scratcher kind of human?
Neither, it seems. Shirtless guy ignores our dog and keeps going. A moment later, the front door slams shut.
His potential new buddy gone, Eggie runs over to me. Males. So fickle.
Zoe sags against me, the fight in her gone. I let go of her and she slides down to sit, back against the wall.
I frown at Eggie. “Some watchdog you are. You need to be more discerning about the people you want to be friends with.” His tail wags harder and I crouch so I can pet him. “It’s not your fault. You get it from Zoe.”
“Shut it,” she says, head back, eyes shut.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be so darn quick to judge. I’m sure once I get to know your new pal, I’ll see how nice he is. It’s already clear he’s a class act. I mean, he did want me to join you two in bed. That was super polite of him, making sure I wasn’t left out of the fun. Hey, where’d you two crazy kids meet? A church social?”
“Not in the mood.” Opening her eyes, she swallows carefully. “Why didn’t you lock the bathroom door?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Silly me, thinking I was safe in my own home and could take a shower without having to barricade myself in the bathroom in case some greasy-haired pervert waltzes on in and tries to molest me.”
Like we used to have to do when Mom was still around and brought one of her male friends home for the night.
“Axel wouldn’t have hurt you,” Zoe says.
“Axel? What happened to the guy from the hookup app?”
“Dating. App. And he lost interest once he found out about Taylor.”
Of course he did.
Jerk.
But that doesn’t excuse her for bringing home some random guy. “When did you meet Axel?”
Getting to her hands and knees, she pushes to her feet, then lurches toward the bathroom.
“Too hard of a question?” I ask as I follow her. I lean against the counter while she fills a paper cup with water from the sink. “Let’s try something easier. What’s his last name?”
She takes a tiny sip. Inhales slowly and deeply through her nose.
And doesn’t answer.
Un-freaking-believable.
“Please,” I say through gritted teeth. “Please, please, please tell me you know his last name.”
“It didn’t come up.” Her lips roll inward and she swallows again. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Turning to face the mirror, I pick up my hairbrush and pull it through my already combed hair. “I’m not looking at you at all.”
“You are.” She takes another sip of water. “You’re judging me.”
I whirl on her. “You brought a man home! A man I’m guessing you met just last night, whose last name you don’t even know. You had sex with him two doors down from where your daughter is sleeping. What if she would have woken up and needed you? What if his tastes don’t just run to teenage girls but to toddler ones?”
Zoe blanches and makes a choking noise and I wonder if I’ve gone too far but I push the worry aside. She’s the one who went too far. But at least what I said seems to have gotten through to her. She stares at me wide-eyed, a hand over her mouth, her face sickly pale.
Good. She should feel sick over what she did. But then I look closer and she doesn’t look just sick. She looks ready to pass out.
Which is the last thing I need.
“Are you okay?”
She turns, drops to her knees in front of the toilet and throws up.
Definitely not okay.
I set the brush down and gather her hair in both hands, holding it out of the way while she heaves. Rub her back with my other hand.
“Done?” I ask when she stops gagging. She nods and leans back against the tub, tears leaking from her closed eyes, face drawn.
I straighten and flush the toilet, then refill her cup at the sink. When I turn back, Zoe’s head is on her bent knees, her T-shirt tugged over her legs.
I hand her the water. “Here.”
While she rinses her mouth and spits into the toilet, I wet a washcloth with cool water then take the cup and set it aside. Sitting next to her, I brush her hair back, curling my finger under a few sweaty strands sticking to her temple, then dab her forehead and cheek with the cloth.
She tips her head onto my shoulder, her voice raw when she speaks. “Thanks, sissy.”
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
I start to rise. “I’ll get you a ginger ale.”
She grabs my hand. Holds on, her palm clammy. “Can you just…can you sit with me? For a few minutes?”
I settle back and we sit there, side by side, shoulders touching, hips pressed together. I give her hand a squeeze to let her know I’m not mad at her anymore. To let her know everything will be okay.
That I’m here, beside her, no matter what.
19
After sitting on the bathroom floor for a good ten minutes, I helped Zoe back into bed, leaving the washcloth on her nightstand and the garbage can from the bathroom on the floor near her head. Then I let Eggie out back to do his business and grabbed a can of ginger ale for Zoe. I was making my second trip down the hall when Taylor padded out of my room, crying that she was thirsty. I picked her up only to discover she was soaking wet.
As was my bed and, thanks to me picking her up before checking for any dampness, my shirt.
Devyn’s fault. She insists on putting Taylor in pullups at night even though they’re not as absorbent as diapers. But she thinks Taylor will get tired of sitting in her own pee and start being more agreeable to potty training.
Because two-year-olds are known far and wide for their logic.
Taylor’s logic tells her that the tiny plastic toilet next to the bathtub is a torture seat that will suck her soul from her body if she sits on it.
I gave Taylor a quick bath, changed my shirt and stripped my bed, throwing the sheets, Taylor’s pajamas and my tank into the washing machine before getting Taylor her juice and finally letting Eggie back inside.
Now Taylor and I are on the top step of the porch, Eggie lying next to me. It’s not so awful, sitting out here on a warm Saturday morning, Taylor’s tiny body curled against me.
Morning Taylor is my favorite. She’s cuddly and sweet and it reminds me of when she was a baby.
Morning Taylor is only around for a limited time, though. Like a Shamrock Shake. You have to be quick or you’ll miss it completely. After thirty minutes, forty tops, she wakes up enough to start talking.
Right now, though, she’s content to stay quiet, the back of her head resting against my chest, the fingers of her left hand idly stroking my arm as she sucks down her second cup of juice.
Eggie lifts his head and looks down the road, his tail thumping against the wooden floor boards. A moment later, a car approaches and I think it’s our neighbor, Mr. Keane, but as the vehicle gets closer I see I’m wrong. It’s an SUV.
A black Explorer that slows then stops in front of my house.