Page 34 of The Ex Puck Bunny
When we part, we pause to catch our breath, foreheads falling together.
“Wow,” he breathes.
I nod my head slightly, feeling foggy and flushed. “Yeah.”
Grady glances around as if Derek is going to jump out of the bushes.
It’s still just the two of us with Bunny safe and fast asleep a couple of feet away.
He says, “Let’s definitely not do this again.”
Only, I want to more than anything.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Thursday morning,I wake up with a sense of dread. It’s not because of work. More like play. As in a playdate.
Sophia Snodgrass Schuster texted a couple of times about setting something up to get the kids together. When I replied vaguely, she called, and I made the mistake of answering because I thought it was one of my figure skating students’ numbers.
It’s not that I don’t want Bunny to socialize. We go to a playgroup on Monday mornings, my mom brings her on Wednesday, and we go to the park on Fridays, weather and schedule permitting. Plus, we regularly walk around the neighborhood and run into other families. Not to mention, a few of my mother’s friends have grandkids and they all get together periodically to brag.
It’s just that I know Sophia and whereas we were once friends, it shifted into a strange competition. I don’t have the energy to field her questions and dodge her arrows wrapped in slippery-tongued silk.
You’ll see what I mean.
But because I’m a woman of my word, Bunny and I go to their house. It’s a McMansion on Cornflower Cul-de-sac. Sure enough, there is a picket fence.
A familiar Silverado sits in a driveway on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Arguably, it’s a nicer, grander home than the Schuster’s place, but there’s no way it’s Grady’s. Must be a popular truck model and color. Plus, I cannot imagine Grady living here. His dwelling is probably more like a rundown frat house with red cups, old tires, and a soggy couch littering the lawn.
This also reminds me that I still need to tell him I decline the offer to help with his Knight’s social media homework. More time together risks more kissing. The kiss we shared the other night is probably illegal in some jurisdictions. My cheeks are still pink and the butterflies haven’t so much as rested their fluttery wings.
Sophia greets us at the door, decorated with an elaborateWelcome Springvertical sign with Easter eggs and flowers. If it weren’t for my mother, Bunny wouldn’t know what season it is. Not being able to keep up with “all the things” feels like a point against me in the mom-Olympics.
Dad did recently mention he wants to revive the backyard Easter egg hunt for Bunny since this year she can walk and will enjoy scavenging for the eggs. This is in addition to the Cobbiton event, though I hear the CAC has been having funding issues, so who knows if they’ll do it this year.
Sophia flounces with a flip of her hair in greeting. She wears a dusty pink T-shirt printed with gold letters that sayWine Mom. I cringe for her.
Harried and wearing an apron, Mr. Sophia scuttles around the kitchen. “Ladies, I made you fresh lemonade and some snacks whenever you’d like them.”
I wave in greeting and thank him. I cannot imagine my brother taking on this role when he and Deborah start their family. Obviously, my brother is helpful. Before Bunny learned to use the potty, he changed her diapers. He snuggles and reads to her before she goes to sleep and is an outstanding uncle with lots of playing, silliness, and nature walks. However, Mr. Sophia seems afraid that if he doesn’t do the right thing, his wife will send him to the doghouse.
They have a massive playroom, because of course they do. I pray Bunny doesn’t decide that today is going to be the day she decides to bite another child. She’s never displayed that kind of behavior, but McAyla McKenzie, Sophia’s daughter who is just over two years old, keeps grabbing things out of Bunny’s hands and tossing them on the floor.
Sophia says, “So, we call my sweet baby girl MC. Short for McAyla McKenzie.”
I sense she wants to know why I named my kid Bunny. It’s a common curiosity when I introduce her but most people dance around asking directly.
She points to the infant in the sleep seat. “And this is McNeil McKean.”
“Also MC?”
Sophia’s lips ripple as if she only just now realized that. “And tell me about your daughter’s name. Bunny?”
“Her name is Beatrix Briar. Beatrix as in Beatrix Potter, the author.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
I frown. “She wrotePeter Rabbit.”
