Page 23 of Wild Eyes
“Dad, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d be real mad at you right now.”
Based on the way her ears have gone red, I’d say she is, in fact, real mad at me.
“Well, Emmy baby, it’s a good thing that you love me so much, then.” I wink at my daughter, and it instantly diffusesthe situation. Her pudgy cheeks squish up into perfectly round apples as she rolls her eyes.
Quick to anger and quick to let go. Can’t say the kid didn’t get my temper.
“Skylar, I haven’t made proper introductions yet. This pint-sized barrel of attitude and oversharing is my daughter, Emmeline, but she’ll shank you if you don’t call her Emmy?—”
“I would never shank Skylar Stone,” she mumbles as I forge ahead.
“And that boy lying on the grass in a pile of embarrassment is my son, Oliver. Or Ollie. Call him what you want—he won’t shank you.”
“Yeah,” Emmy says, as though it’s her job to answer for everybody. “She knows. She met Oliver down by the lake. Heintroduced himself.”
That gives me pause. I try to hide how much my daughter’s words have affected me as I glance between Skylar and Oliver, who has now edged two fingers open to peek at me through the space between them.
He introduced himself.
Truth be told, I’m floored.
Skylar forges on like there’s nothing unusual about that. “Yeah, he was reading by the lake, and I needed some peace and quiet. It was a beautiful view, and he let me sit on the log with him. I watched the birds and the sky, and he read his book…” She trails off, eyeing me carefully, most likely reading my shock as disapproval. “I hope that’s okay. I didn’t mean to overstep. I just…”
She turns to glance down at Oliver with an affectionate grin. “You’re good company, you know? It was exactly what I needed.”
I’m trying not to make a big deal about this, so I stare down at the grill and gather my thoughts. Over the last few years, I’ve learned that making a big deal out of Oliver’s selective mutismserves zero purpose other than embarrassing him and making him quieter.
So instead of disclosing that Oliver never speaks to anyone other than immediate family and friends who might as well be family, I carry on like there is nothing out of the ordinary about what Skylar just said.
“Well, that’s great. I’m glad you guys got the chance to meet, and I’m glad my boy was such a gentleman and shared his bench with you.”
“But, Dad, don’t you—” Emmy starts, and I cut her off with a serious look. It’s not one I give her often. I’m not known to be an especially great disciplinarian, but this is a moment where we need to just change the subject and not make him talking a wholething.
I just have to pray she picks up what I’m putting down. Boundaries aren’t her strong suit, but she’s pretty intuitive. “Emmy, can you please run inside and get Skylar a drink?” I turn to our guest. “Skylar, what do you want? Beer to help with a matching beer belly? Or I’ve got wine, soda, juice. Really, whatever you want, I’ve got it.”
“What about me? Can I have whatever I want?” Emmy, again. Jumping right into the fray.
“Oh em gee, girlfriend,” I whine, leaning again into my favorite Valley-girl voice that elicits a giggle from Emmy. “You get water because you already had a freezie.”
Skylar chuckles softly, and Emmy grabs her hand, hauling her into the house with a disappointed growl.
I turn to watch them walk away, and when they get close to the door, Skylar glances back at me over her shoulder. Her shiny bronze hair falls loose around her shoulders. My eyes catch on her hazel ones for a moment, and she seems uncertain. Like she doesn’t know what to make of today’s developments. I mean… Why would she?
The girl has to be entirely out of her element. She’s gone from world tours and selling out stadiums to getting hauled into an old farmhouse by a sticky-handed hellion.
Her lashes flutter down over my apron once more before her lips press into a flat line to cover a smile. She shakes her head slightly and follows my daughter into our house.
“Dad?” Ollie says to me, finally pushing up onto his elbows. His sandy-blond hair and his bright blue eyes feel a bit like looking straight into a mirror of myself at his age.
“Hell yeah, girlfriend. What’s up?” I continue in that voice and his eyes take an exasperated tour around their sockets. “If I’m annoying you now, just imagine how much you’ll hate me when you’re a teenager. I’m going to have to learn how to play it cool by then. Or do you already think I’m pretty cool?”
He ignores my line of questioning altogether and jumps in with, “You can’t leave her alone with Emmy.”
“And why not?” I ask as I lift the edge of a burger to check the sear.
“Because Emmy is absolutely obsessed and totally overbearing and is going to make her not want to be here. She was talking about choreographing her a dance and then charging her for it like she’s some sort of entrepreneur.”
I stop and stare at my son. When he does talk, he sounds like he’s twenty and has been to Harvard. Must be the absurd reading level his teachers keep telling us about. “Your vocabulary never fails to impress me. But your sister shouldn’t work for free. Child labor is a crime, you know.”
