Page 7 of The Match

“I swear, Jake, she better be bedridden with a hundred-and-three-degree fever.”

I smirk. “Hawaii with some dude.”

June’s eyes look feral. She closes them and breathes through her nose to cool her temper. “I don’t care how big of a movie star she becomes, that woman doesn’t deserve to have a daughter as wonderful as Sam.”

And that’s the thing: Natalie is finding success in Hollywood. In the two years she’s been out there, she’s already landed a few minor roles in some big projects and has been filling her plate with commercials between auditions. She is reaching her dreams. It would be so much easier to be happy for her if she wasn’t completely abandoning our child in the process.

June wraps her arm around mine, and we start to swing. “Listen, you’ve both had a tough couple years. And as much as I want to rip Natalie’s silky brown hair from her head, I want to squeeze you with hugs until you burst. Because I see you continue to show up for Sam time and time again, and it’s because of your love and perseverance that I know she’ll pull through it all. And eventually, Jake, you’ll both figure out how to live with her seizures. I know it. It’ll just take some time.”

I nod and attempt to swallow the lump in my throat. “I wish there was something I could do to cheer her up, though.”

“Well, maybe there is.”

“I asked if she wanted to go out for ice cream, but she didn’t seem too thrilled by that idea.” Apparently, when your dad shuts down your masterful plan to con him into getting you a service dog, and you have to watch him act like a jerk to a perfectly nice stranger, you don’t have much of an appetite for bubblegum ice cream.

“Hmm. Maybe there’s something I can do with her while you’re running errands. Any movies she’s been wanting to see?”

“No.”

“Does she need any new clothes? I could take her shopping.”

“She hasn’t been interested in clothes lately.”

“Well . . . is there anything else you can think of? Anything

she’s mentioned lately that she really liked? Or wanted? Anything she’s shown interest in that would get her excited about life again?”

I stop our swinging, and my gaze turns toward the house as if I’ve suddenly developed X-ray vision and can see right through the walls to the stack of pamphlets piled up on the kitchen counter.

The answer has been in front of me all along, but I dislike the idea now just as much as I did yesterday. I’m still holding tight to all the reasons I think getting a service dog is a bad idea, but I’m just desperate enough to see that maybe it’s exactly what Sam needs to give her something to look forward to.

But more than anything, I really don’t like that I’m about to have to eat a whole truckload of shit.

CHAPTER 4

Evie

“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like this,” I tell Joanna, stepping away from my easel to inspect my work.

She leans around her own masterpiece (literally, it looks like it could hang in a museum somewhere) to look at my sorry painting. Honestly, it looks as if Charlie painted that bowl of fruit. Not true—Charlie would have painted a better version. His attention to detail is impeccable.

Six weeks ago, when Joanna announced to me that she was going to be heading into retirement at the start of the new year, she decided that she needed to seek out a fun hobby that could help occupy her time when she was a lady of leisure. Not sure why she felt the need to drag me along on her hobby-seeking adventure, since I’ll be the one to absorb all the work she’ll be giving up, but I’ve been along for the ride ever since.

So far, we’ve taken up power yoga (and then set it right back down), built a raised vegetable garden and planted ten different types of green plants before Jo decided that she didn’t like being in the sun so much and wanted an indoor hobby, and took two improv classes before the guy who never stepped out of his pirate character told me my hair was beautiful and that he’d like to see what it would look like on one of his dolls at home.

Yeah.

So, when Jo suggested we take up painting in the comfort of her kitchen while we sip white wine and listen to music, I was all for it.

Joanna scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think you might be gettin’ worse.” I love her accent. It’s thicker than mine because she’s from the deep South. Sweet home Alabama.

I give a short laugh. “No, don’t sugarcoat it for me. Be honest and tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?”

Jo flashes me a sassy grin. “Honey, you know I love you more than a stick of butter. I don’t need to lie to you about your artistic abilities to prove it.”

And I do know that she loves me, which is why her honesty never hurts. It’s why I’m laughing at her comment instead of silently brooding over it like I would if my mom would have made it. Because if Melony Jones said something like that, it would have been to show me exactly where I fell short in her eyes. Why I needed to either hire the best private tutor and spend countless hours a week perfecting my technique so she could hang the finished product above her mantel for her supper club to ooh and ahh over, or hide it away forever, and for heaven’s sake, never let anyone know I have flaws.

By contrast, Jo stands up and fluffs her messy topknot—seriously, I want her long, gorgeous white-gray hair—and tops off my glass of wine before telling me to paint a line down the center of my orange.

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