Page 8 of Destiny

“Thanks. So, what did you want to talk about?” How much do you want to ravage and rip my clothes off? I wish.

“It’s about the girls.”

Damn. But fair.

“Do you think their attachments to those inanimate objects have anything to do with Clara leaving?”

“Oh . . .” I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“I just worry that they are using them to make up for the security their mother should provide.”

I take a big swig of the alcohol before me, take the clip out of my hair, and then use my fingers to flip it to one side. “I mean, I’m not a child psychologist—but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“No?”

“No. They’re little girls. I think it’s normal to be attached to stuffed animals and blankets.”

“Were you at their age?”

I pretend to think back—as if I still don’t keep my childhood teddy bear, Mr. Peaches, on my bed. “Actually, yeah.”

“And when did you eventually grow out of that?”

Oh, you know . . . still haven’t. But those are my own issues.

“Probably around sixth grade?” I lie.

He sighs in and out. “Okay. That’s good to know. Sorry that I sometimes have to rely on you. It’s just that I was never a little girl.”

“I really don’t mind. I’m happy to help.”

“Well, thank you.” He takes his first swig of his beer, and I marvel at the sight of his pronounced jaw muscles. “I’m not sure what we would’ve done without you the last couple of years.”

I look down and smile. “I could say the same.”

“How so?”

I replay the words that just escaped my lips in horror. The liquor must be getting to my head quicker than I realize.

“Uh . . . it’s just that I love being around Aurora and Alessia. They’re the best.”

“Thank you. I’m trying my best to raise them right.”

“I think you’re doing a wonderful job.” Then, I lean over and grasp his hand.

What the hell are you doing, Bea?

In a surprise turn of events, he actually grips it back and starts rubbing my skin with his thumb.

Then, we look at each other.

He lit a candle earlier in the evening, and its flame dances beautifully in his dark, mysterious eyes.

“Um.” His touch feels even more intoxicating than the wine running through my blood system.

Then, he flinches away. “I—I’m sorry.”

I open my mouth to say something, but he interrupts me.

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