Page 21 of Wild Eyes
She never stops.
Talking, moving, watching, questioning.
She’s smart, brash, and downright hilarious. I wouldn’t have her any other way. And if anyone ever tries to put out her fire or make her feel like she’s somehow too much, I’ll break their face.
But goddamn.
Emmyexhaustsme.
Some days I text my parents a simpleI’m sorrybecause I know she’s exactly how I was as a kid. Even though they’ve loved me through it all, I now know the depth of their exhaustion with me and my antics.
“What’s up, girlfrieeend?” I call over my shoulder, doing my best and most dramatic Valley-girl impression. Something that neverfails to make both of my kids laugh.
And they do laugh. Emmy. Oliver.
And someone else I don’t immediately recognize.
As I’m turning with a pair of tongs in one hand, I place the laugh. A little smoky, a little restrained, like she’s holding herself back because a loud laugh might not be ladylike.
Skylar.
Skylar, who is holding my daughter’s hand.
Skylar, who takes one glance at my apron, lets her eyes go wide, and slaps her free hand over her mouth.
I glance down and realize I’m wearing the “This Guy Rubs His Own Meat” apron that Rosie got for me last Christmas.
Joke goes right over the kids’ heads.
But not Skylar’s.
Inwardly, I cringe. Outwardly, I roll with it.
I toss her a wink and smirk. “Sorry, if I’d known we were expecting company, I’d have worn my classy apron.”
She quirks a brow at me, all attitude as her hip pops out and her arms cross beneath her breasts. It props them up in a way that I shouldn’t notice.
But I do, so I force my eyes not to linger for too long.
“And what does your classy apron look like?” she asks.
I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth with an amused tilt of my head. “Well, my classy one makes me look like I have a beer belly and super hairy chest.”
Skylar watches me while my kids smile broadly, their eyes bouncing between us. “Does that mean you don’t naturally have a beer belly and a hairy chest?” Immediately following that wisecrack, her lips pop open and her jaw drops wide. It’s as though she can’t believe what just came out of her mouth.
Emmy and Oliver cover her shock by bursting into peals of laughter. Luckily, they don’t get the innuendo yet, but time’s ticking on being granted that kind of grace.
“I’m pretty sure you got a good, long look earlier today,” I volley back, seeing her cheeks flush pink even as her eyes roll.
Just as I’m about to keep going with a teasing response about being willing to show her again if she can’t remember, Emmy pipes up.
Becauseof courseshe pipes up. Emmy always pipes up. And Emmy, for all of her jokes, loves to skewer her dad.
“He doesn’t have a beer belly.Yet.But I bet it’s coming because he does drink beer. And he already has a hairy chest.”
I feign outrage with an audible gasp as I hold my metal tongs out to the side and stare at my daughter accusingly. “Emmy, I donothave a hairy chest.”
She snorts, her cheeks all rosy, her hair wild and messy across her forehead. My daughter acts half-feral, and that’s one thing I love best about her. She doesn’t give a flying fuck how she’s perceived. She is genuine through and through.
