Page 14 of Of Literature and Lattes
Ping.
Light, but not bright midmorning light, crept through the crack in Jeremy’s shades. He rolled over and grabbed his phone as the text pinged again.
I need Becca back here by 10
He punched his pillow before tapping Krista’s number. This time he skipped the preliminaries. “You said I have her through the weekend.”
“We got into Dr. Benson’s practice. They just called.”
Jeremy sat up straight. “That’s great.”
“Save it. She doesn’t need this, but the school will get the report so we have to go.”
Jeremy closed his eyes. Becca’s school had been at Krista for two years about the reading issues. In fact, if Jeremy hadn’t moved closer, he doubted he ever would have heard about them.
“If they insisted on a doctor’s assessment, Krista, then she needs it.”
If he’d unraveled the story correctly, the questions from Becca’s teachers had started when she was in kindergarten. The school got officially involved halfway through first grade, and bandied about words likephonetics,comprehension, anddevelopmental milestones. Krista had ignored it all. But now, entering second grade, Becca faced terms likeconsolidation,cognitive assessments,anddyslexia.
“I’ll get her back. See you soon.”
Krista clicked off without another word.
Jeremy pulled on a sweatshirt, shuffled to the kitchen, and pulled an espresso shot. He had restored an old La Pavoni machine during the evenings last month and had finally calibrated it the day before. It was never going to pull a shot the quality of the La Marzocco that was coming to Andante in a couple weeks, but its temperamental nature and the constant fine-tuning it required made each shot a fun adventure.
He’d only been a few minutes tardy to Krista’s house the night before. Yet he’d still gotten an Anna and Elsa duffel bag launched at his chest.
“I’m late now.” She strode out the front door with Becca in tow.
“I came right when you called.” He backed up.
Krista, though ten inches shorter and eighty pounds lighter, was fierce when angry. “Forget it, Jeremy. It just makes me look bad. Why should that bother you?”
The derision in her voice cut, as did the question. Fights were never simple with Krista. Each dug into every argument before, stirring them up and turning them into the light, and each ended with a question, letting him know he wasn’t enough—not aware, not thoughtful, and, last night, not on time.
“There was traffic.”
“You moved here to be a help. Don’t become a complication.”
As Becca emerged from behind her mom, Jeremy shifted his attention. “Ready, Ladybug?”
Expecting a huge grin, Jeremy deflated at his daughter’s nod. Her mood appeared to match his. She didn’t reply, nor did she smile—and none of that changed for their entire thirty-minute ride to Winsome or throughout a dinner of pasta and his “famous” Bolognese sauce. He even fell flat on her favorite vegetable.
Becca had scrunched up her face at the broccoli. “It’s not my favorite.”
“Tell me a green vegetable you like better.”
“I like avocados.”
“They’re a fruit. Try again.”
“Peas.”
“Okay, you got me.” Jeremy leaned against the counter. “But this is great stuff. I thought you liked broccoli.”
“I do.”
“Then what are you complaining about?” He tried to keep his voice light, but he could hear Krista in his daughter’s whine—her insistence that everything look and be just so, and on her terms.
