Page 67 of Unlikely

She laughs and pulls away, situating herself back in the passenger seat. “I don’t think so, but we should get going anyway. I don’t want to be late.”

“Where am I taking us?” I bring up the GPS on my screen. “I don’t know where I’m going half the time, but I’m happy to drive.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked to borrow Remy’s car.” She types in the address and On The Horizon comes up as the destination.

The only reason we would be going there again is if it’s Clementine’s turn to volunteer. “Are you sure?” I ask, almost feeling guilty to be invading something that is so important and personal to her.

“Yes,” she assures me. “I asked if I could bring someone with me, and they’re always excited to have an extra set of hands.”

An unexpected onslaught of emotions lodges itself in my throat. This woman is so unsure and uncertain of whether or not she has anything to offer, and yet here she is opening up her very private life to me, including me, allowing me the privilege to see every single side of her.

“Thank you,” I manage to say. “I know how much this means to you, and I know how close you keep this to your chest.”

She offers me a soft, wistful smile as her eyes fill with unshed tears. “I want you to know me.”

Unsaid feelings and declarations fill the air around us as we make the rest of the drive. Hands clasped together as we both no doubt get lost in our own thoughts about life and maybe, just maybe, love.

There’s a small little parking area behind the house that can’t be seen from the street, and Clementine instructs me on where to park my car. My heart beats rapidly as we walk up to a back entrance that is secured with a gate that you need a code to access.

“Do they have a lot of people visiting here that shouldn’t be?” I ask, feeling every bit of my privileged life and the hint of shame that comes with it.

“It happens,” she says nonchalantly as she punches in the numbers on the keypad. “Parents fighting over custody, parents with protective orders against them. You also need to make sure that everybody who comes in has been verified with some kind of background check and has been approved to work with children.”

This has my steps faltering. “I don’t have one of those.”

“I know,” she says, sliding her hand in mine and leading me inside. “I spoke to Rochelle, and you’re just going to be observing. And you need to be with either her or me the whole time, but if you want to come back, I can help you get one.”

“Only if you want me to come back,” I say, still cautious of invading her space.

“Of course.” The words leave her mouth without a second thought, no hesitation or issue with having me around.

Clementine rings the doorbell. “Just don’t decide till the night’s over, because it might not be everything you think it is.”

I stare at her as she waits for the door to open. “I’m certain it’s everything I think it is.”

The door swings open and I reluctantly drag my eyes away from Clementine, trying to push away the urge I have to throw myself at her and tell her how amazing she is.

“Clem.” A woman at least ten to fifteen years older than me greets her with excitement. “It’s so good to see you.”

Clementine blushes. “It’s only been a month.” The women hug each other before Clem brings me to her side. “Rochelle, this is?—”

“Oh you must be Zara,” she finishes. “Clem mentioned she was bringing someone with her tonight.”

“Clemmmm!” The high pitched squeal gets closer as a girl no older than five, with dark brown curls, runs into Clem’s legs and hugs her tightly. “You made it.”

Clementine crouches so she and the little girl are eye to eye. She bops her nose. “And how’s my favorite five-year-old?” Clementine asks, confirming her age.

The little girl bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’m not five anymore, Clem. I’m not five. I turned six.” She holds up six fingers. “Rochelle said you were going to make me a birthday cake.”

“Well, you know the rules. We have to cross a few things off our list before we make dessert.”

“I did my homework,” she exclaims. “And I just finished my dinner.”

Clementine stands and extends her arm out to the little girl, who comfortably places her hand in Clem’s. She leads her farther into the house while Rochelle stays back with me, both of us following a few steps behind.

“She’s a wonder with these kids,” Rochelle praises. “Even when it isn’t her month, she makes sure to never miss an opportunity to make any of them a birthday cake.”

Images of a little blond-haired girl growing up in this place with nobody making her birthday cakes breaks my heart. It’s obvious her intention now is to make sure these kids know they were wanted, that someone is celebrating their existence.

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