Page 56 of The Snowflake Effect

I grin. “I’ll take that maybe.” Which is a total yes. “And that gives us an hour and a half to hang out.”

She stubs her toe into the floor, stalling. “With both of you?”

I’m not sure if she’s concerned hanging out with Jackson is giving my son false ideas of a mother-figure, but I’ve spoken to Jackson about the fact that I might date women, and spending time with anyone, even short term, only works if they’re cool spending time with him—if they don’t judge him and his quirks. Anything less is a deal breaker, serious or not.

I lean closer, my elbow brushing hers. “Don’t stress. We’re going to spend a bit of time with Jackson and a dictionary. And since I didn’t get a firm yes from you, I might even find an older librarian to give his pottery to. You really want to miss that?”

She chuckles. “Fine. But I get to choose the lucky recipient, Fabio.”

“As you wish, Buttercup.”

Her bottom lip drops open, no doubt picking up on my Princess Bride reference, another film she mentioned in Aspen when ranting about my taste in movies. At least this one had sword fighting and André the Giant.

Wordlessly, she follows us toward a free table. Sounds of scratching pens, whispers, and shifting chairs greet us. Light filters through the tall windows, dust particles caught in its glow. I head toward a table at the back and motion for them to sit.

Once Shay and Jackson take a seat, I kneel beside him. “What voice do you use in here, bud?”

“The inside one,” he says on cue.

I wink at him, then turn to Shay. “Be right back.”

A couple minutes later, I return with Encyclopedia Brittanica’s volume G tucked to my side. Jackson is swinging his legs as he tells Shay about the pool and sauna at the house I’ve rented, his “inside” voice drawing irritated glances their way.

I sit beside him, Shay across from us, glad I can watch her for the next ninety minutes.

“Pass me his pack,” I say as I heft the massive book onto the table. She slides the bag across, and I sift inside for Jackson’s journal and colored pencils, then I place them in front of him. “Where’d we finish last time?”

He clucks his tongue against his teeth as he flips the pages of his journal. I stretch my leg out until the side of my calf presses against Shay’s. She glances at me, but she doesn’t move.

“Here!” Jackson points to our last entry. A reedy woman a table over shushes us.

“Yeah, okay, bud. But inside voice, remember?”

“Here,” he says again, maybe a fraction more quietly. “The gaboon viper.”

Shay leans forward and whispers, “What’s a gaboon viper?”

Her calf rubs against mine, and I’d swear her breath hitches.

Jackson pushes his glasses higher, puts on his serious face, and proceeds to read the entry. “A big snake with long fangs and triangles on its body. It lives in Africa. It’s a nice snake, but if it gets mad, it shoots poison.” He looks up. “The gaboon viper.”

“Cool.” She reaches over and places her fingers on the edge of his book. “Mind if I take a look at this?”

He bites his lip, anxiety radiating from his hitched shoulders, three ums filling the awkward silence. Sensing his turmoil, Shay pulls her hand back. “I don’t need to see it, but maybe you can explain how it works. Do you record all the words?”

I rub his back until his arms relax, the same circular motion I use when he has a nightmare. It soothes me as much as it does him. “Not all the words,” he says, excited again. “Just the best words.”

Shay props her chin on her hands. “How do you know which are the best?”

He shrugs. “I just know. Daddy runs his finger down the page, and I say stop when I see one of ’em. Then Daddy says the word and then I say it and then he reads the de-fi-ni-tion, then I hafta say how I wanna write it and then I write the word in orange and Daddy writes the de-fi-ni-tion in purple, unless it’s a Sunday.” Finally, he takes a breath. “Then we use red and blue.”

I watch Shay for any sign of judgment. Jackson’s eccentricities are confusing for some people. Caroline is great with him. Patient and understanding. Exactly how Marina would have been—like mother, like daughter.

When my mother’s in from Arizona, she spends her time trying to fix him, like he’s broken. Like I’ve done something to fuck him up. She begs him to wear the same socks and insists he not walk backward into the kitchen on Tuesdays. But Jackson is Jackson, offbeat and fun and all himself.

Shay drops her hands under the table, her attention still fixed on Jackson, but her fingers find my knee. “Can I help today? Can I maybe write some definitions for you?”

She squeezes my knee, and I slip my hand below the table to cover hers. Of course she gets it. Of course this woman with the wild hair and mad temper and stubborn streak doesn’t question my son’s quirks.