Page 51 of Stuck With You
Her glossy, different-colored eyes have a way of making me feel defenseless, as if somehow she sees through all the layers I don’t like messed with.
When she laid down the sass last night and told me everything was hard, I felt her overwhelming exhaustion in the way she said it. All the weight of what I’m beginning to understand that she carries.
So many questions that are none of my business shot off like rockets. One after another, wondering why she seems to be doing this all alone. It’s not that I don’t understand the struggle of single parenting. I do. I saw it firsthand with my mom and then experienced it to some extent with Krissy.
With Sarah, I get the impression that it’s more than just financial strain and trying to care for two kids while working full-time and going to school.
“I’ll set these inside and be right back.”
I return to my truck.
She reappears and climbs in beside me, setting her stuff on the floor and fastening her seat belt. “Ollie is so excited about the cookies. Thank you for getting them. If you tell me how much, I’ll—”
“Sarah, it was nothing. A boy deserves to have non-offensive cookies for school.”
I back out of the driveway.
“First of all, boobs might not be appropriate for preschool, but they are not offensive. And second, you should know that I can actually bake. I was just . . .off my game.”
“Hmmm. Ok.”
She swats my arm. “You’re a punk, you know that?”
“A punk?”
“Yeah, all blunt and bossy, but then you go and buy cookies for my son. You better be careful, or I might start to think there’s a layer of sensitivity under all that . . .”
“Bitterness,” I offer.
She bites her lip to hide her grin.
Her long brown hair is down in waves today, held back by a headband. I have the urge to reach over and tug a strand.
I shift my gaze to the road.What the actual hell?I run a hand over my beard and then place it firmly on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly.
“You know, you can keep your little disbelieving hum to yourself, sir. I can bake my ass off. I just need to not be in the middle of a meltdown while I’m doing it.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye against my will. She finally has a coat on, but her legs are only half covered by a black pleated skirt, and I really shouldn’t know that. I stab the rolling asphalt before me with my eyes, needing them to stay glued.
Sarah is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that’s intimidating because she never flaunts it or expects attention from it, even though her eyes alone would stop traffic.
“How’s your hand?”
“It’s fine,” she says plainly, gazing out the window at the crisp fall morning.
“It’s cold this morning. It’s nice to see you wore a coat today.” There’s an insane part of me that wants to push her buttons and watch her get a little riled up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her head swivel in my direction. I want to grin, but I bite it back.
I turn into the law firm parking lot.
“What in the hell is it with you and coats? You know, Lionel, some people are just hot. All those layers can be suffocating and confining.”
I stop my truck in front of the door, and she pushes her’s open.
“You should try wrangling two kids with a big ass puffy coat. It’s like being a marshmallow over a fire. You expand with heat until you melt into a big gooey mess.” She huffs, gathering her things.
“Sarah.”
