Page 2 of When Fate Breaks
“Oh, no, that’s okay!” Auntie Emily says. “You can just go on in and wash your hands, Annie.” She takes a step back from the doorway and points to the left. “You can use my and Uncle Kyle’s bathroom. Just down the hall and through the bedroom.”
“Thanks, Emily,” my mom says.
“No problem at all. You guys come in! Kyle’s out back, Brett. I think they’re about to announce the lottery numbers.”
“Oh, Lord. He’s still doing that?” Dad asks, shaking his head.
“Every week,” Auntie Emily smiles.
“Go ahead, Annie,” Dad says. “Come meet us in the backyard when you’re done.”
“Okay,” I mumble, heading in the direction Auntie Emily pointed.
I walk to the end of the hallway, easily finding the open door to the bedroom and slipping right inside. My eyes are immediately drawn to the large windows showing the view of the front yard. I walk over to them and peer out, spotting our rental minivan parked in the street before turning back to walk into the bathroom.
When I reach the door, I push it open with my elbow, not wanting to get the handle sticky. I start to step inside and then freeze.
There’s already someone in here.
“Oh, sorry!” I squeak. I start to back out but then stop, turning back to the little boy sitting on the floor. He’s holding a small black plastic container that appears to be filled with dirt, tiny green sprigs poking out of the top of it. He has his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, slowly pouring water from a paper mouthwash cup in the container. He hasn’t even glanced my way or acknowledged that I’m here.
“Um...hi?” I say.
“Hi,” he says flatly, without looking up.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He sets the empty cup down and rotates the container in his hand, inspecting it. “Watering my grass plant,” he says.
“Your grass plant?” I repeat, my eyebrows pinching.
“Yep.”
“You know there’s, like, grass outside, right?” I question, confused. “Like, already grown?”
The boy finally raises his head to look at me, his huge blue-green eyes catching mine. “What areyoudoing?” he asks.
“I came in here to wash my hands,” I say, holding up my applesauce covered fingers as evidence.
“You know there’s, like, water outside, right? In the lake?” he replies.
My mouth falls open. “I–”
“How old are you?” he cuts me off.
“Uh,” I stammer, caught off guard by his question. “Six?”
“Hmm…” he hums, eyes back on his plant.
“Well, how old areyou?” I ask.
“Five. But I turn six next month.”
“Well, I turn seven the month after that,” I shoot back.
“When is your birthday?”
“August 1st.”
