Page 6 of Kind of a Bad Idea

“I know.”

I jab an arm toward the entrance to the vineyard. “And somehow made it five miles down the road in the less than twenty minutes that Mom was upstairs in the shower. That means she didn’t walk.”

Binx nods, her brow furrowing. “I know. And the thought of her hitchhiking her little ass up here terrifies me, too. Truly. Really, really bad things could have happened, but…they didn’t. Which means you have the chance to teach her this lesson in a kinder, gentler way than a kidnapper would have.”

I shudder and press a fist to my stomach. “Fuck, I can’t even think about that.”

Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. She’s not your kid,” I say, even though I know that’s not fair.

Binx isn’t Sprout’s parent, but she loves her. She would do anything for her, a fact she proved this past winter when she moved heaven and earth to help us raise the money to pay for Sprout’s surgery.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“It’s okay,” she says, rubbing her palm in slow circles between my shoulder blades. “You’re right. I have no idea what it’s like to be a parent, but I do know what it’s like to be a kid who doesn’t fit in. As grown-ups, we know that’s not the end of the world, and that misfit kiddos will find their people eventually. But at eight or nine, when everyone else has a bestie, and you’re the girl who collects bugs and plays soccer harder than the boys and never knows when to shut her mouth…it can be rough. You start to think there’s something wrong with you, that you’ll always be the one who doesn’t fit in. And I didn’t even have the challenges Sprout has right now.”

I stretch my neck to one side, fighting to release some of the tension in my jaw.

Binx is right. My daughter was born hearing, but the accident that killed her mother when she was little left her with severe head trauma. She lost her hearing at three, at a pivotal moment, when so much of a kid’s skill with language is forming. Then, I wasted so much time grieving that we didn’t even get on the list for the children’s hospital that specializes in hearing loss surgery until she was five. She had hearing aids, but they didn’t do much. She did speak some, but heading into elementary school, she mostly used sign language to communicate.

By the time we realized how much of the surgery wouldn’t be covered by insurance, she was seven and we were scrambling to raise the money before she lost any more time. She had the procedure last March, recovering seventy percent of her hearing in her left ear and fifty percent in her right. She was finally able to hear music and her grandmother’s laugh and, for the first time in years, her own voice.

Seeing as she’s one crazy perceptive kid, she immediately realized that it didn’t sound “normal,” not like the other kids. A period of severe self-consciousness followed. That was only made worse when her best friend, Francesca, moved away, and a few of the meaner kids starting teasing her when she mispronounced words in class.

She’s been struggling at school ever since, her grades falling as she becomes more and more withdrawn. She talks nonstop at home, showcasing her crazy vocabulary and sharp mind, but she refuses to participate in class. Even assurances from her speech therapist that she’s making amazing progress haven’t made a difference. My daughter is determined not to expose her vulnerable underbelly again and regularly asks to be reunited with the sign language interpreter who used to accompany her to her classes.

But the state won’t pay for an assistant now that her hearing has been restored. After so much sacrifice and struggle to make it happen, the surgery we’d hoped would make things easier for her, actually seems to have made them harder.

Maybe hard enough that she felt she didn’t have much to lose by hitching a ride on a dark rural highway…

I run a hand down my face, fighting a sudden wave of emotion.

“Come here,” Binx says, wrapping her arms around me. I stiffen, intending to pull away, but then she curls her fingers around the back of my neck and whispers, “Take the hug, asshole, you need it,” and I exhale a rough laugh, my arms wrapping around her curvy little body.

She’s one of the most muscular women at our gym, with biceps many a teen boy would envy, but compared to me, she’s still a tiny thing. I’m enormous. Always have been. By ten, I was taller than most of my teachers. By twenty, I was the kind of big—six-six and muscled all over—that made people turn to stare when I passed them on the street. Even if I’d wanted to, there was nowhere for someone as big as I am to hide.

So, I learned to put on a brave face, to pretend I didn’t mind the stares or whispers that I looked “scary.” I faked it until I made it, and the attention no longer bothered me. I know Sprout will eventually learn to do the same—she’s a tough kid—but watching her struggle is painful.

Binx is right, I don’t want to do anything to add to her pain, no matter how badly she scared me tonight.

“How about this,” Binx murmurs, her lips brushing my jawline as she speaks, making me keenly aware of her soft mouth and how much I want to bruise it with mine. “I’ll discreetly fetch Sprout from the dance floor and bring her here for a chat. Then you two can decide what happens from there.”

“All right,” I murmur, my chest aching with longing.

I want to tighten my arms around her, to pull her so close there’s not a millimeter between us. I want to run my hands down her back to cup her round ass in my hands and tell her about the many filthy dreams I’ve had about her. I want to tell her that she’s my potty-mouthed angel, my best friend, and that I don’t want to imagine my life without her in it.

Which is even more reason to get out of here before I do something stupid with Binx that we can never come back from.

If she shifts forward even half an inch, she’s going to feel the erection growing behind the fly of my jeans and know I’m not as immune to the chemistry between us as I’ve pretended to be for the past two years.

Swallowing hard, I force my hands from around her and step back with a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll try to think of a way to get through to her without graphic descriptions of what predators do to little girls.”

Binx winces. “Yeah, don’t do that. Let her have a few more years of not knowing how awful things are. She’s having a hard enough time already.” She takes a step backwards, aiming a finger at my chest, “And call your mom while I’m gone. I’m sure Bettie’s losing her mind waiting for an update.”

I curse, my shoulders tensing again. “Fuck, you’re right. I need to tell her to call the cops, too. They were putting out an APB for any sign of Sprout.”

Binx nods, her eyes widening. “Yeah, do that. For sure.”

---