Page 20 of The Path to Loving Him
“I also brought Chewy Charles so he doesn’t feel left out.”
“And can the spiders come too?”
“Yes,” I nearly sigh. “The spiders can come too.”
Chewy Charles is her sacred horse stuffie who is her best friend. Recently, she got another horse stuffie from Uncle Wyatt, my sister’s husband. Naturally, she named the other horse Chewy Chondra. Currently, Chewy Charles and Chewy Chondra are fighting, which is why I didn’t bring her. We don’t need bad blood while getting milkshakes.
And the spiders . . . well, those would be her fingers. She likes to pretend her fingers are spiders, dancing them over every diseased surface she can find. I don’t tend to allow the spiders to join us because they become disease-sucking sticks, and I’m not into the whole sick-kid thing. But given the conversation I need to have with her, I’m allowing spiders.
On the way to Provisions, Mac tells me about her day, how Gregory took her marker that she was using, and she was not happy about it, then he didn’t even apologize. I make a mental note to check out Gregory and give him thedon’t fuck with my niecelook. She also expressed her displeasure for not being picked for one of the specials and how she’ll never, ever be picked. The specials in her classroom are chosen at random onFridays, and they range from being able to take the class stuffie home for the weekend, to taking home the estimation jar, or the mystery bag. They’re all interactive activities and apparently very coveted. She’s been chosen for the estimation jar before, which just meant we had to put a multiple of something in the jar, and the classroom tried to guess how many were in the jar just by looking at it.
Initially, Mac wanted to put sand in the jar and count the grains of sand, but I told her that maybe it was not the best idea. It would be hard to count the grains, so she went with her polished rocks instead.
When we arrive at Provisions, I help her out of her car seat as she stuffs Chewy Charles in her shirt, letting just his head poke out from the neckline. She saw a mom carrying a baby in one of those pouch things, and ever since then, Mac believes she needs to carry Chewy Charles the same way—minus the baby apparatus.
When I shut the car door and she’s ready to walk, she reaches up and takes my hand. I glance down at her, and she looks up at me with a gleeful smile on her face, the kind of smile that rips your goddamn heart out, because how?
How could this child be so goddamn happy?
She lost both of her parents, her mom, who she was incredibly close with, and now has to live with her uncle, who barely knows what the hell he’s doing. Yet she’s smiling.
She loves holding my hand.
She loves skipping while I walk.
And she loves just . . . being with me.
I don’t get it. I’m not sure I ever will.But fuck, am I thankful.
When we reach the hostess station, I ignore the fact that the hostess is one of my students and motion for a table of two with my fingers. She walks us to a table in the back corner and then places menus in front of us.
“Your server will be with you soon.”
“Can we get fries?” Mac asks as she dances her spider fingers across the menu. “I like dipping the fries in my shake.”
“Yeah, we can get fries,” I say, already thinking about how dinner is most likely going to be a no go when we get home. It’s fine. It’s okay to spoil Mac every once in a while, and she’d probably benefit from not having to eat whatever I decide to put on the table tonight.
Let’s just say taking care of a child and figuring out healthy meals wildly accepted by said child has been a challenge.
“I love fries. Can we get waffle fries?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“Yay! I want the waffle fries. I like sticking my tongue in them.”
“As we all do,” I say as I lean back in my chair and watch my niece dance her fingers across the table with a horse sticking out the top of her shirt.
She’s a weird kid.
I’d be the first to admit it.
She doesn’t like the same things her friends like, and she sure as hell doesn’t act the same. There are times I wonder . . . is she going to be okay? Do I need to get her help? Is it normal for her to convince me that wearing a T-shirt as pants is acceptable? Aubree told me shirts as pants do not work for many reasons, but . . . I don’t know, she’s a very convincing child.
“Hey, Mr. Rowley,” someone says as they approach our table. It’s one of my least favorite things about living in a small town. I glance to the right and see Kenna, another one of my students.
“Hey, Kenna.”
She holds a pen and notepad in her hand. “What can I get you two?”
