Page 19 of Stuck With You
Well, shit.
I rock the carrier gently. “What’s your name, partner?”
The boy stares at me, and up close, just like his mother, his eyes are unique. Both are blue, but one has a large brown slice. His eyes run over my face, watching me closely.
“Who’s this guy?” I point to the tattered stuffed animal with bulging eyes, wondering who gives a kid a stuffed toy that looks like a bloated, dead fish. The crying ceases as if the fact that I can speak shocks her into silence.
The boy’s legs swing a little faster, his gaze dropping to the ugly fish and then bouncing back to me.
I glance over my shoulder at his mom, charging one way and then the other, her dress pants flowing around her as if she’s stalking the prey on the other end of the phone. Her voice is low enough that I can’t hear her, but her face and gritted tone tell me this isn’t a friendly chat that could be postponed.
I continue to push against the edge of the carrier. The baby’s gray eyes track me despite the movement, gripping a raggedy, floppy lamb.
The boy wiggles in his seat, tucking the fish closer to his side.
“Does it have a name?” I point to his companion, and he stares at me, his eyes growing wide.
“You’re not familiar?” The voice comes over my shoulder, and it’s the return of that confident sass I experienced about this time yesterday. She leers over me, arms at her side, looking like she just went three rounds in the ring. “He’s Pout-Pout.”
My gaze returns to the boy, a slight smile creasing the corners of his mouth. I stand. “Pout-Pout? Interesting name.”
She drops her phone in the great abyss slung at her side, her hands moving to her hips. “Funny, I’d think you’d make great friends. Pout Pout Fish spreads his dreary wearies all over the place.”
I face her and her amusement, but hear a muffled giggle from below.
I definitely won’t get paid enough for this.
“I need your information.” I round the counter and log into the computer, helping this along. “Name.” I keep my eyes trained on the screen, but when she doesn’t immediately reply, I find her staring.
“So, once you verify the issue, you’ll call me before you do anything?”
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest. “It needs to be repaired. I just don’t know the specifics yet.”
Her head falls to the side slightly, her shoulders rolling back. “If this issue is serious or requires parts, will you send me a quote before proceeding?” She rephrases her question.
This woman and her distrust are grating on my very last nerve.
“Yes. I’ll note not to touch anything without discussing it with you.”
Her eyelids drop a few millimeters. “Thank you. That would be so kind.” She checks her watch as if I’m holding things up.
“Your name.” I return to the forms, wanting to get out of here sometime tonight.
“Sarah Atwater, and that’s Sarah with an ‘h.’”
I get her phone number and then her address.
“237 North Edgewood.”
I stop typing, glancing up from the keyboard under the bill of my cap. She twists to check on the kids, patiently waiting as my reserve dips a little lower.
“Excuse me.” I must not have heard her right.
The door opens and closes, and Carson strolls in. “Hey, sorry. That took longer than . . .” He stops, his eyes transfixed on Sarah’s, but onlyfor a second before he catches himself and surveys the rest of our after-hours guests. He nods at the kid. “I’ll toss dinner in the back.” He holds up a brown paper sack.
Sarah’s attention returns to me.
“Come again,” I ask, needing her to repeat herself to be sure I heard what I thought I heard.
