Page 121 of Play Book

“I owe you a big one,” I tell her.

She chuckles. “No problem. My husband’s not thrilled, but he’ll survive. You might need to buy him a bottle of bourbon.”

“Consider it done. Text me his favorite.”

She gathers her things. “Well, I’m off to finish cooking Sunday dinner. Am I picking her up from school tomorrow?”

“Yes, I?—”

“No!” Ally wails, on the verge of tears. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Honey, I have to go back to work and?—”

“No!” She starts crying, again and Colleen and I exchange another look.

“Shh,” I say, rubbing her back. “Don’t cry. We’ll figure something out, okay?”

“O-okay.” Her face is red and mottled, breaking my heart a little.

“Just let me know,” Colleen whispers as she slips out.

“Come on. Let’s go talk,” I tell Ally.

She follows me into the living room, and we settle on the couch.

“Tell me everything,” I say.

She explains about the book again, showing me the now tattered copy that’s clearly marked as coming from the school library.

“It wasn’t a school night,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m not a baby. Why do I have to go to bed at nine on a Saturday? And I was just reading…”

“I know. And I don’t mind you staying up late reading. We’ll make sure to address that with any future nannies.”

“Do I have to have a nanny? Mom used to leave me alone all the time.”

I wince.

“I know, but that’s not safe or legal. You can be alone for a few hours during the day, like if I have to go to the doctor or something, but you can’t be alone overnight, and certainly not for two weeks when I have long road trips.”

“So you’re not going to take care of me?” she whispers. “You’re just going to leave me with nannies all the time? How is that better than foster care?”

“Uh, it’s a lot better,” I say firmly. “You’ll be safe. I know what happened with Marjorie was scary, but that won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it. We have money, and in the off-season, I’ll be with you twenty-four seven.”

She scowls. “Right. You spend all your free time with Saylor. She’s more important than I am.”

“That’s not true.” I shake my head. “She is important, but not more important.”

“Why do you have to have a girlfriend? Mom always had boyfriends. I was always alone so she could go on dates and hookups.”

Oh, Carly.

What the hell was wrong with you?

It’s rhetorical—it’s not like she can answer me from the dead—but I still want to shake her.

“I don’t have to have a girlfriend,” I say carefully, “but I care about her.”

“It’s just ’cause she’s a supermodel, right? Hockey players all date models and actresses and stuff.” She says it like it’s distasteful to her.

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