Page 75 of Perfect Praise

“We shouldn’t have promised this room would be done when he got back, even though we’ve been procrastinating. What’s another couple of months?” I joke, crouching down and picking up an L-shaped tool. “What is this?”

“Pliers?” she guesses. “Oh, an Allen wrench.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting back on my heels and mimicking how I assume it’s used. “I can twist.”

Camille sits on her new trendy brown pouf and spreads the five-page (front and back) instructions out across her belly. “Find piece A.”

My eyebrows pinch at her bossy tone. “Is this the dynamic we’re going to have?”

“I can’t twist,” she says, imitating me sarcastically, “or I’ll hurt baby boy.”

I roll my eyes as I search for a light brown piece labeled with an A sticker. “What’s the latest name list?”

“Finn, Noah, and Parker Junior.”

“I still like Finn,” I pout.

She smiles. “I think Parker Graham Blanchard, Jr. is going to win. I like thinking he’ll be just like his daddy.”

“What if he doesn’t want to be a doctor?” I question her.

“He can be whatever he wants to be. We’ll support him no matter what.”

“Good answer,” I quip.

Camille isn’t going to fail at motherhood, just like she doesn’t fail at anything else. Not that our mom did, but she doesn’t support photography, my passion, or anything that makes me happy in general. I wish I knew why because I think it would help me understand her better. But I don’t think I could ever gain the courage to ask. I’d be afraid her answer wouldn’t satisfy me.

Holding up the long and skinny piece A like a trophy, I ask Camille, “What does it connect to?”

She tuts like I’m an idiot. “B.” I search the pile in silence for a minute until she asks, “What about your photography business?”

“You’re my only client,” I say, “and it wouldn’t be a good look for my one review to be from my sister.”

“You need a website,” she says.

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe. I’m taking photos of Locke’s aunt and his niece tomorrow evening.”

“Maren!” Camille gasps, eyes bright. “That’s amazing. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Let’s see how it goes first. She’s just being nice.”

“She’s not justbeing nice. People aren’t justbeing nicewhen they tell you your photographs are fucking good.”

“I’m not naive,” I groan, fitting my new B piece that looks like a slat for the bottom into the first set of holes in A. I start twisting away with my Allen wrench. “I want people that don’t know me to tell me.”

After I’ve screwed every slat into piece A and set aside the bottom of the crib, Camille joins me on the floor to help me find the side railings.

I try to ignore the buzz of a text message in the corner where I threw my phone—and Camille’s multiple sidelong glances—but I’m itching to run and pick it up, even though I know I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t feel this way.

I last six twists of an Allen wrench.

Hottie Icicle

My backyard is too dark :(

Me

It’s one night. What have you been doing for the past however many years you’ve lived in that enormous house alone?

---