Page 56 of Smooth Sailing

“No, I haven’t,” he agreed readily.

Ugh!

My phone went again and I looked down at it.

I’ll wait for you to contact me about whether or not we’ll have dinner. I hope you agree to do so. I’d very much like to know what’s going on in your life and have you back in mine. Please, think hard about it, Buttercup.

Reading that last word, I lifted the phone and rapped it repeatedly against my forehead in an effort to forestall the new assault of tears that were threatening.

Hugger slid it out of my hand and read the text.

“Why’d that make you bang your head with your phone?” he asked me. “Is this his way of exerting pressure without seeming like he’s doin’ it?”

I shook my head. “No. It’s because he hasn’t called me Buttercup since I was probably twelve.”

“Shit,” he whispered.

I held out my hand, palm up. “Hand me my phone.”

He put it in my palm.

I tapped out, I will. I’ll think hard, Dad. Please be careful.

I didn’t send it.

I considered ending it with Love you.

Instead, I added a little blushy-smiley emoji and sent that.

Then I blew out a big breath.

“Get your spit back?” Hugger asked.

I rolled my eyes.

“Painting’s not gonna spit-shine itself, babe,” he remarked.

I rolled my eyes again.

Hugger got up and returned his chair to the window. He slouched in it, put his boots on the sill, ankles crossed, and fired up his phone.

With nothing for it, considering I had a mortgage to pay, and that required me getting work done so I could earn my paycheck, I turned to the painting, reached for a Q-Tip and got to work.

7

WHEN ISN’T IT?

Hugger

Hugger sat across from Diana at her dining room table, knowing.

Down to his gut, he knew.

Even so, he didn’t trust it.

Maybe it was because he never expected it. Maybe it was because he never really wanted it. Or maybe it was more to the point he never thought he’d get it. Or maybe it was because he knew to his soul from the moment he could cogitate he’d never have it.

But whatever.

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