Page 128 of Play Book

She snorts. “Fine.”

With a look of distaste, she does as I suggested, dipping a broccoli floret into the mashed potatoes and then putting it in her mouth. She chews slowly and her brows knit together, but I can’t tell if it’s disgust, confusion, or something else.

“You’re right,” she announces. “I couldn’t even taste it.”

“Excellent. Now eat up.” I take a bite of the meatloaf. “And tell me about shopping.”

“Her mom was going to take her shopping for summer clothes, and they invited me.” She pauses. “I guess I need summer clothes too?”

“Probably. I thought you were going to go with Stevie.”

“I will. But you know, I can go more than once. I might not find stuff I like.”

“All right. Are you sure you’ll be okay hanging with Rhea and her mom? You’ve been stuck to me like glue this week.”

She dips her head. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. I just…the nightmares…are scary.”

“I know. And I don’t mind, but we can’t keep this up forever. I have to go back to work.” I meet her gaze across the island where we’re eating. “The regular season is almost over and we’re in the playoffs. I have to be there.”

“Can I go to the games?”

“To the ones that aren’t on school nights, of course.”

“Oh.” She looks down. “Are you in trouble? For missing hockey?”

“A little, but they understand that family comes first. However, if I don’t play, I don’t make money. Do you understand that?”

“Do you make a lot of money?”

“I do.”

“Mindy said you make a million dollars a year.”

“I actually make more than that.” It’s public record, so there’s no point in lying even though I’m not thrilled that a group of eleven-year-olds have discussed my multi-million-dollar salary.

“That sounds like a lot.”

“It is. That’s why you can go to private school and have nannies and buy clothes whenever you want—within reason,” I add hastily.

“Mom and I never had money.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“She never worked. She was on…welfare.”

I opted not to say anything and let her talk.

“It was embarrassing. My clothes never fit, I never had lunch money, and she was always either out somewhere or sleeping.”

Dammit, Carly.

“But then sometimes she’d come home with money, and we’d go to the grocery store. She’d buy food, and we’d get ice cream on the way home. She would tell me about how one day we were going to have a house on a beach, where we could lie in the sun all day and swim and invite our friends for cookouts.” She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip. “But she didn’t have any friends. And I mostly didn’t either.”

My chest tightens again, but this time it’s with pain and grief and so much damn guilt.

“I wish…it had been different,” I say quietly. “I wish your mom had told me she was in trouble. That she needed me.”

“You sent cards at Christmas with money,” she whispers. “I saw them, but Mom always spent it for rent. I never got Christmas presents.”

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