Page 27 of Clean Sweep
Although a bit impetuous, I felt better after the phone call. I wanted to check in on Leslie . . . without actually checking in on her. She was undeniably savvy and would have seen through it in a moment. Pride held that woman together at this moment, and I wouldn’t be the one to shatter it.
Here I sat days later,stillthinking about her.
With a quick beep of the horn, a thin, blonde figure arose from a chair and headed outside. Celeste looped her backpack over one shoulder, a coffee in hand, and headed for the passenger side. I blamed her mother for the coffee addiction. From inside, a vague wave followed from Leslie.
Celeste beamed her usual chipper smile. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey sport. How was school?”
She shrugged and shoved the backpack to the floor between her feet.
“Fine. The usual. Aced a test. Same old.”
“Sweet.”
Our companionable silence continued while I headed out of Pineville and up the canyon, toward our home south of Jackson City. The thirty minute drive up the canyon and to our rather remote home had always felt like a pain, but on days like today, I liked the space it gave me to think.
“How did you become such good friends with Leslie?” I asked.
Celeste glanced at me, then back to her phone. Her fingers flew over the screen, probably in a text message.
“Oh, while waiting for you to pick me up at the coffee shop every day we chat. She’s there every now and then. I talk to Dahlia and Katelyn a lot too. I want to work there.” She perked up. “Would you let me work there?”
“If you find someone to replace you and you make better money than at our company, then yes.”
Her lips formed a duck face as she thought about it, then shook her head. “Definitely not as good of money.”
“What do you like about Leslie?”
Celeste shrugged. “I don’t know. She listens to me. She takes me seriously. Dahlia is really fun too, but we’re more like . . . friends. Leslie reminds me of a mentor. She gives great advice and even better hugs.”
“What advice do you need?”
“Her favorite tampons. Best cramping medication. Cups instead of pads,” she shot back with a witty smile.
I shuddered. “All right, all right. Point made.”
Celeste laughed. “Just kidding, Dad. I call Mom for that stuff, although I’m sure Leslie would help me too. I talk to her about guys at school.”
The blinker clicked as I flipped it on, glancing her way for a moment. “Don’t you talk to your Mom about that stuff?”
“Yeah, but . . . it’s different. Leslie is here almost every day and I only see Mom every other weekend.”
“Fair.”
The thought that I didn’t hug Celeste enough occurred to me. We’d never been all that touchy . . . but maybe it’s becauseIwasn’t that touchy. I’d never asked Celeste if she wanted more physical affection, but had always assumed she was happy enough.
“Do you want more hugs?” I asked.
Her nose wrinkled. “Uh, no. Thanks. I’m good.”
Ah, that was why I didn’t give more hugs.
“Got it.”
“Why are you curious about Leslie?” she asked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She wore a faded denim jacket that looked like someone had driven over it, tumbled it in a washer full of bleach, then tried to resurrect it with bad dyes. She loved that thing, and I heard from a reliable source that her mother had paid a couple hundred dollars for it.
Ridiculous.
