Page 17 of A Way Out
Maria glanced at the television. “Thomas the Tank Engine. A classic, for sure.”
“All right, missy,” Oz said, taking the bowl out of Riley’s hand and standing. “I need to get to work.”
Oh, that’s right, he worked three jobs. Maria couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that someone was paid so poorly that they had to work what? Fourteen hours a day just to make ends meet.
To Maria he said, “I’m glad you’re up. I didn’t want to have to wake you up. Didn’t want to invade your personal space.”
Invade all you want. She cleared her throat. “No worries. Um, do I need to do anything in particular? With the kids, I mean?” She’d not expected to be left alone with four children. There were days when she felt she was barely succeeding at raising a single three-year-old.
“Nope. My mom will be here in about thirty minutes to get them up and ready for school. Then, knowing her, she’ll drop them off and head back to her house, even though I told her to stay here and enjoy the pool.”
“Your mom?” What? He was springing this on her now, thirty minutes before the woman was due to arrive?
No, wait, he’d mentioned this yesterday, although it hadn’t clicked until right this minute what he’d meant.
She touched her hair. She’d jumped out of bed and rushed down here so fast, she hadn’t even paused to look in a mirror.
“Sorry,” he said, cupping the back of his neck. “I didn’t think to tell you the specifics yesterday. I’m, ah, not used to having anyone else around besides her and the kids, and we all know the routine, you know?”
Maria let loose a weak laugh. “Yes, actually, I understand exactly what you mean. I suppose we both need to get out more, don’t we?”
Good Lord, it sounded like she was propositioning him.
“Well, I guess that’s what this trip to Missouri is for, right? I promise to do my best not to spring anything on you while we’re there.”
This time, her laugh was more cheery. “I promise to do the same.”
He backed away, lifting the bowl he’d taken from Riley. “I’m gonna put this in the sink and I’m out of here. I’m working my landscaping job today, so I won’t be back until dark. Oh, wait.”
He stopped and tugged his phone out of his pocket. “Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll send you a text so we can reach each other if need be.”
For a moment there, she’d thought he was asking for an entirely not-utilitarian reason.
She rattled off her digits. A few moments later, the front door clicked closed behind him.
Maria swept Riley into her arms and rushed for the stairs. “We need to brush our teeth and comb our hair, and I need to put on real clothes, and we need to do all this in the next twenty-five minutes,” she told her child, who simply blinked up at her, like maybe she was overreacting to the fact that Oz’s mother was about to arrive.
Maria didn’t care. She went right ahead and overreacted.
An hour and a half later, Oz’s mother, who the kids called Abuelita and whose name was Catalina—“but call me Cat”—shooed them out the door ahead of her, speaking mostly in Spanish but sprinkling in enough English that Maria understood that she did not want them to be late for school.
Maria collapsed onto the couch next to Riley, who was busy scribbling on her electronic sketchbook.
Wow. She was exhausted already and it was only seven thirty in the morning. There had been a lot of energy bouncing around for a few minutes there, although, to be fair, Cat had done an amazing job of keeping everyone on task, making sure they ate, brushed their teeth, got dressed, had their backpacks, hadn’t forgotten any homework—and on and on and on.
“I don’t think I could handle having three kids,” she murmured. Which was just fine, since she had zero prospects of even having one more at this point.
Pushing off the couch, she wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee. Probably part of why she felt so exhausted; she hadn’t had her morning dose of caffeine yet.
She came to a stuttering halt in the doorway, staring at the pristinely clean and sparkling room. Cat had scrambled up a hefty amount of eggs and had added bacon and orange slices, and while Maria wasn’t an expert, she’d cooked enough to know that sort of meal created a mess.
But there was no mess. No grease. No sticky juice stains on the counter. No dirty plates in sight.
Clearly, Cat was a magician. Or a goddess.
After pouring herself a mug of coffee—yes, Cat had made that too—Maria wandered around the house, eventually ending up on the lower level, where Holly and Sam had set up a small practice studio.
On the far end of the room was a platform upon which sat a drum kit. A bunch of guitars rested on stands, lining one wall. A cozy leather sectional couch was parked in front of a wet bar.
