Page 26 of Wild Eyes
Over the sounds of my kids’ laughter, I hear her softly say, “Thank you,” as her fingers rap against my chest.
It pulls my eyes down, her nails trailing against the apron where it says, This Guy Rubs His Own Meat.
A shy smile touches her lips. Her soft fucking lips.
And I have to draw away. Because this apron is feeling just a little too apt for the moment and what I’ll no doubt be doing later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SKYLAR
Back in the bunkhouse,I pull up a YouTube video on how to make a bed.
Fuck Weston Belmont and his thick thighs and his cocky smirk for implying that I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own.
I’m a grown-ass woman. I’m perfectly capable of making a bed. I’ve just never had to, and there’s no time like the present.
I decide learning how to do things I’ve never done before is part of my fresh start.
As my mom would have said with a smug smile on her face, “Living like the other half.”
Turns out, making a bed is simple. I speed through it, and truth be told, as soon as I take a look at the sheets, what I need to do becomes apparent.
It’s simple enough that my mind wanders as I complete the task.
I find myself thinking about dinner tonight. About watching West’s kids and the way they interact with him. About the cozy feeling of sitting outside under the patio lanterns strung above the front porch. The table we gathered around reminded me of a classic diner table, with red vinyl on top and a metal trimwrapped around the edges. The spots where the screws attached to it showed slight signs of rust.
There were six chairs at the table, and not a single one of them matched. The same could be said for the plates, cups, and cutlery. And even though there was no fine china or crystal as far as the eye could see, I’ve never been invited to sit at a more charming table.
I don’t think I’ve ever spent time around children as relaxed and playful as Emmy and Oliver. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more hands-on dad in action than when I sat there watching West.
As the night wore on, I retreated into my head. I couldn’t help it. Watching them together felt like watching something that wasn’t meant for me. It felt foreign and inspiring and special.
Seeing them was a punch to the gut that I didn’t see coming. It was the family life I never realized I missed out on until I watched it play out right in front of me.
There was laughter and good-natured teasing, not a single mention of business, or money, or upcoming events. They didn’t engage in mean gossip about people who weren’t present. They just…talked about their day.
West didn’t criticize the way they sat or the way they held their cutlery—or lack thereof. He didn’t make a big deal about the ketchup all over Emmy’s face or say anything to embarrass her about the broken glass from before dinner.
Who knew a broken champagne flute could trigger me the way it did?
It dredged up a matching memory. Except it didn’t match at all.
My memory involved being forced to pick pieces of similarly broken glass off the floor with my bare hands. Apologizing profusely and trying not to bleed on the marble—thus creatingmore mess—while my dad screamed at me about needing to be less clumsy if I was ever going to be presentable in public.
When he got mad like that, his face would turn red like a tomato and his jowls would shake. I’d feel the spittle fly from his mouth and splatter against my face. For years after that one mistake, my mom would crack offhanded jokes about how I could dance so gracefully onstage but had a bad case of butterfingers around the house.
They never laid a hand on me in their mission to mold me into the perfect doll.
But they scarred me all the same.
My heart sank to my feet the moment Emmy fumbled, and the sound of shattering glass tossed me violently back into my own strained childhood.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t West’s calm, kind words or the complete absence of anger in his response.
His first concern was for his daughter.
His second concern was for me.
