Page 21 of Call it Reckless

“Guess I’ll be going now.” He tipped his head toward me, slightly lifting the baseball cap covering dark red, curly hair. “Look forward to your opening, Bristol.”

He glared at Cameron, stomped toward the large truck, and slammed the gate closed. “Next time, short stack, you let me help unload.” He opened the front door and rummaged around, then emerged with her huge leather purse. He slung it over her head and whispered something in her ear as he did, causing her to turn a bright red. Whistling, he tossed a set of keys toward her, hopped into the truck with a lightness I wouldn’t have imagined he was capable of, and drove away.

“So, that’s Mac, huh?”

She watched the back of the truck until the taillights disappeared around a corner.

“No, that’s a dead man,” she said, her words as close to a growl as could be.

I laughed. Moving here might just be more fun than I anticipated.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Reid

“Daddy, I don’t feel so good.”

Yep. I could’ve predicted that. It was a Tuesday.

I placed the back of my hand on her forehead and cheeks, even though I knew I’d find nothing alarming. “You’re fine, cupcake. Grab your backpack.”

“But Daddy—”

“Don’t start with me, young lady.” I pointed toward her backpack on the floor near the front door. “We’re already running late.”

Giving me a final death glare, she stomped toward it, snatched it up, and stormed out the door, muttering something, but I caught the words “lady” and “stupid” and knew the gist of what she was saying.

I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, scrubbing a hand over my face. It was like this every week. Mentally, I’d dubbed it “Terrible Tuesday.”

If only Abby saw us now. During times like these, I felt like I’d failed her, despite my best efforts.

When we were in high school, Abby and I didn’t come close to running in the same circles. She was smart, sweet, and soft-spoken. For some reason I still didn’t quite understand, she saw something good in me I couldn’t even see for myself until she set her sights on me.

She never treated me like a project, but she saw me in a light no one else had, and because of that, I wanted to burn brighter for her. When she got pregnant in college, I married her immediately. We’d planned to get married, anyway; we just moved up the timeline. She quit school to become a mom while I worked any job I could get that worked around me finishing my classes.

She was an optimist and a natural caregiver, the perfect balance to me, who worried about securing our future. It had thrilled us when I was accepted as a deputy sheriff in a county close to her parents. We settled easily into Sterling Mill with our little girl and had been living a great life together. I worked long hours to provide a nice home for our family and help make our community safe.

When I’d come home after my shift, she would make dinner while I horsed around with Lexi, letting her climb all over me or playing chase around the yard, a contrast to the quiet day she’d had with her mom. Abby would shake her head when her daughter came inside with dirty knees and grass-stained clothes.

After Abby died, there’d been no more dress-up. No more tea parties. Lexi wasn’t interested in those things without her mama. I did the best I could, conquering my sadness to continue to romp and play with her. Since I wasn’t good at the “girly” or crafty stuff, I took her on hikes and taught her how to fish. We spent many nights camping under the stars. She could tie four different kinds of knots, pitch a tent without help, start a campfire, and gut a fish better and faster than most guys I knew.

She loved it. And I loved the time with her, doing something I was good at.

But sometimes, I still caught her looking longingly at her mother’s delicate china tea set that Abby used for tea parties with her, serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into perfect triangles and lemonade. I’d occasionally catch her sleeping with one of Abby’s silk scarves that she used to wrap around Lexi’s slight shoulders, and they’d pretend they were noble ladies.

Since Abby was no longer around to balance the tomboy side, I had to figure out a way to do it myself. And since I was shit at pretending to like “girly” things, I needed to find an alternative.

I asked my in-laws for advice. That was when Miss Pettigrew’s School of Comportment came up. When I’d gone home later that day, I looked up the meaning ofcomportment. Basically, it sounded like it was all about learning etiquette. Throw in some dance lessons, and it seemed like a good thing—a little exercise on top of learning manners.

Miss Lucy Pettigrew came from a prominent family in Georgia and was considered the “epitome of a southern lady.” Whatever that meant. It didn’t matter; my wife had gone there, and she’d been the calm to my chaos, so that was good enough for me.

At first, Lexi had fun. She got along with the other girls, and with them around, thrived on dressing up and having little parties like she used to do with her mom. The classes gave her something to do. But lately, it had been nothing but a point of contention. I didn’t know what changed, but not liking her attitude, I’d dug in my heels. So had she. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

It was a long ten-minute drive to her school in which I was treated to a coldyou don’t understand,huffy silence. I was pretty sure Ms. Pettigrew wasn’t teachingthatas part of the curriculum, but I didn’t dare mention it.

I followed the line of cars through the school parking lot until we reached the front door. “Have a good day, sweetheart. I love you.”

My little angel merely grunted.

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