Page 84 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

She pulled out a long coat that would cover me entirely and said, “I haven’t worn this one in fifteen years. It’ll be out of style, probably smell like old lady, but you are certainly welcome to it.”

I took it, my fingers digging into the lush material.

“Oh, Mrs. Rawls…”

“Please call me Lucinda,” she begged. “Or Cinda.”

“Grams!” a male voice called out from somewhere beyond the hallway. “Come back here and tell me what you think about this height for your showerhead!”

Cinda grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the sound of that voice.

As I moved, my heart started to pound.

Because I knew that voice.

I’d heard it just hours ago in the candy store.

Heart in my throat, I followed behind Cinda and my daughter, coming to a halt in her bathroom doorway when my eyes lit on Jeremiah, snug t-shirt and tight jeans, arms stretched high over his head as he worked on a showerhead in Cinda’s handicap-friendly shower.

The way he had his arms up over his head had his shirt riding up, and a tight, tanned expanse of belly was displayed.

He had the V.

I’d always heard of the V but hadn’t met anyone that had one.

Jeremiah definitely had it, even if I could only see one half of it.

“Higher or lower?”

“Hey!” my daughter whispered.

Jeremiah’s head snapped toward that whispered word, and his arms dropped.

He smiled hugely, and my heart literally exploded at the way my girl waved.

“You know each other?” Cinda asked.

“Actually, yes.” He laughed. “This little girl was at the candy shop and showed me all the sweets to get you.”

“Ohh!” Cinda laughed. “She is a little sugar addict. She helps me put away all of my candies.”

“Looks like she’ll be doing that for you with all the stuff I got you today, too,” he teased. “Hey, Anleigh.”

“Hi,” Anleigh whispered back.

I closed my eyes at that sweet, whispered word.

Fuck, I hated my father.

When I opened them again, it was to find Jeremiah staring at me, a worried look on his face.

“This is my neighbor,” Cinda explained. “She lives across the street with her father.”

He frowned, those frown lines between his eyes becoming more pronounced. “I didn’t think anyone lived there.”

“They don’t celebrate Christmas,” Cinda added, trying to explain the unexplainable.

I’d lied to her.

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