Page 44 of The Scars I Bare
My forehead furrowed in confusion as she began to turn away.
“Doesn’t know what?” I asked.
She looked back, a sad, nearly blank expression splashed across her otherwise animated face. “Everything.”
She meant to leave it at that and simply walk away, and I was going to let her.
After all, I had interrupted her private moment. I had stolen her secret and pushed for information that wasn’t mine to know.
But then Lizzie caught sight of me standing by the bar, waiting for my to-go order, and if there was one thing I’d learned about this tiny genius in pigtails, it was that, when she put her mind to something, she always got her way.
“Dean!” she hollered, her high-pitched voice carrying over every other noise in the bay. “Dean! I ordered fish! Fish Fingers!” she said proudly, holding up her fingers to demonstrate.
I simultaneously held up my thumbs as Cora took her seat once more next to her daughter. She’d done a decent job of cleaning up the tears, but anyone with a good eye could see she was still visibly shaken. One proper gaze in her mother’s direction, and Lizzie would notice, too.
As Billy dropped off my takeout in front of me, I realized I had a choice to make. Go home and pretend like this never happened, or go sit down at that table and distract one very observant little girl until her mother had a chance to calm down.
Knowing it wasn’t much of a choice and I’d already made it, I grabbed my bag of food and headed over in the direction of Lizzie’s shouting.
“Yay!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as I took a seat across from Cora.
The movement caused her to look up from her plate, that haunted stare still firmly planted on her face.
“Hey, Lizzie,” I said, turning my attention back toward the task at hand. “I bet you can’t make a list of all the foods you can eat with your fingers,” I said, setting the challenge.
She scrunched her little nose as the wheels started spinning. “I bet I can!”
“Without looking it up on a computer?”
She sat up in her chair, her height growing with the help of her knees. “Yep!”
“Think you can do it right now?” I asked, unpacking my dinner as she stuffed a French fry into her mouth. Another glance in Cora’s direction showed she hadn’t even touched her meal.
“Of course I can.”
“Okay then, show me,” I said, digging into my own fries.
“Mommy, are you going to eat your finger fish?” she asked, her attention turning back toward Cora.
She looked up, struggling to answer.
“We had a big lunch today at the clinic, so she’s probably just full. Maybe, in a bit, we can have Billy wrap up everything for leftovers?”
She gave a lingering glance in Cora’s direction and nodded. I wasn’t sure I’d entirely convinced the kid, but it was enough that she began sputtering off finger foods a second later. By the end of our meal, she had a list of at least fifty, which was impressive, considering I’d only come up with maybe five.
She also argued with me over the finer points of whether ice cream could be considered a finger food. I was firmly on the pro side while she was hell-bent on proving me wrong.
“But you eat it on a cone!” I said, feeling pretty proud of myself. “And a cone is a finger food!”
She folded her little arms across her chest. “And, when it’s in a bowl, do you scoop it out with your fingers?”
I eyed Cora, who had slightly perked up during this exchange and was now watching with interest. She smirked a little and leaned back as her protégé slayed me alive.
“You could,” I said, straight-faced. “Don’t you eat your ice cream with your fingers?”
She giggled, vigorously shaking her head.
“No? Why not?”
