Page 42 of Seven Summers Ago
I back out of the driveway. “I gotta head home and shower first. But how about dinner?”
“Dinner?” There’s concern in her voice.
“Yeah, like ‘kid dinner,’” I clarify. “Pizza, chicken nuggets, tacos?”
“No,” she blurts. “No tacos, please.”
“Okay, Charlie doesn’t like tacos—noted.”
“No, no, she does. But Stella and Daisy took me to the margarita and taco bar last night, and let’s just say as good as the tacos were going down, they weren’t so good coming back up.”
I chuckle. “Got it. Makes sense. Okay, no tacos.” Also makes sense why she drunk texted me too. “There’s the pizza place downtown, Golden Pie’s. Remember it?”
“Of course, yes.”
“I’ll pick you both up in about an hour.” I drive to the end of the street and wait to pull out into traffic until we end our conversation.
“Hey, um…Beck? Did we talk last night?”
“Talk?” I tug the brim of my hat down, watching the few cars zoom by too fast for our small town. “No.”
“Huh…” Her voice trails on the other end of the phone.
Part of me wants to tease her over this, but it’s not really all that funny. “But you did text me last night.”
“I did? Ack. Sh…crap.” She corrects herself and the sound muffles on her end of the phone. “Oh…oh…no. Gahh, Beck, I’m so sorry.”
“Guessing you’re reading the texts?” I press my head back against the headrest and squeeze my eyes shut tight.
“Yep, and that’s humiliating.”
My stomach burns that she’s not taking ownership of her confession. Because what’s my excuse? I didn’t have a lick of alcohol yesterday.
“Can we please forget that ever happened?” she whispers.
“Sure,” I mutter in the phone before ending the call and pulling out onto the main road, my tires squealing.
14
ROSIE
It shouldn’t matter what I wear. It’s just pizza at Golden Pies. And I’ll be third-wheeling it again.
With that in mind, I tug on a pair of wide-legged light-wash denim jeans and a light green tank top. Charlie wanted to wear a dress. She said she wanted to look pretty for her daddy. Her new vocabulary is going to take some getting used to. The identity of her father has only been known by a few people in this world, but having it out in the open is still strange.
“Mama,” Charlie calls from the back door where she’s been peering out the small window. “He’s here. He’s here!” She runs to the living room where I’m sitting on the footstool and sliding my feet into a pair of strappy sandals. Snatching her stuffed mermaid from off the couch, she tugs my arm. “C’mon, Mama.”
I exhale a light laugh. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
She takes off in a skip heading back down the hall, her red hair flowing behind her. “Hurry. I don’t want him to leave without us.”
I grab my purse and a thin sweater from the counter and meet her by the back door. “Don’t forget your jacket.” I nod toward the rack by the door.
“That’s not going to match with my dress,” she argues with a little pout.
“Denim goes with everything.” I flash her a smile.
She ignores me, pushing back the sheer curtain hanging over the little window on the back door. Her feet shuffle in place. “He’s not getting out of his truck. What if he leaves?”
