Page 72 of Return to Us
“Nope. Nothing. I have nothing to say about this.”
“Good. Then say nothing.”
Delia looks in the rearview mirror. “Do you have anything to say, Melia?”
Melia smiles. “I love dolls.”
“Yes, it’s fun to pretend, isn’t it, Jessica?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes.”
She continues on. “I like to pretend that my best friend is going to find her prince someday. He’s tall, has dark hair, and the bluest eyes.”
Amelia perks up. “My daddy has blue eyes.”
Delia gasps. “He does?”
“And he’s tall.”
“Look at that.”
“So much for not a word,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
She ignores me, making a right onto Grayson’s street. “Do you think my friend should tell him she loves him?”
Amelia nods vigorously. “And she should kiss him!”
“She should?”
I want to throw myself from this car. “Kissing boys isn’t a good idea,” I try to inject some reasoning into this asinine conversation.
“That’s true,” Delia agrees. “I think she might love him, though, and if she does, she should kiss him before his evil mother gives her poison.”
“Oh Jesus,” I mutter.
“She has to have a kiss!” Amelia agrees.
“Yes, because then, maybe my friend will wake up and see what’s really happening.”
Blessedly, we pull into his driveway and Delia parks. I don’t say anything because I won’t give this conversation another second of my time. I’m not sleeping. I’m fully awake and aware of the truth. This isn’t a fairy tale, and the happy ending isn’t coming my way.
I look at the log cabin in front of me and try not to think about how I’m going intohishome. It’s two floors with huge windows and a wraparound porch on the front. There’s a black tin roof, which I imagine makes rainy nights sound like a lullaby. On the front door, there are three white papers with drawings on them, obviously Amelia’s handiwork.
I make my way closer with my heart in my throat because this is their life and I’m walking into it.
Amelia, having the attention span of a four-year-old, rushes to the door, busy telling Delia about her dance class. “And then Mrs. Butler said I have to move my right foot to be in second position, but I don’t like it. Fourth is my favorite, so I wanted to stay there.”
Delia and I did ballet for years, which is how we became best friends. We both sucked—horribly.
“You should tell her that you want to wear a purple leotard.”
“Are you trying to get her thrown out?” I ask.
“I’m hoping maybe I can drive Mrs. Butler to finally retire.”
I roll my eyes, find the spare key where Grayson told me it would be, and open the door. “You wear your pink tights and black leotard and don’t listen to a word Delia says.”
Amelia shrugs and rushes off to what I assume is her room. I take a second and look around. This is his home, where he’s raising a little girl on his own.
