Page 11 of Emerson

Does Not Exist: You’re so weird, baby Bennet

I scoff, “Can you believe this guy?” Eleanor jumps off my lap, limping away, kinked tail swaying side to side. Not a care in the world for my possible emotional distress.

Is Penny…plagued?

Does Not Exist:…with strep? Yeah. THE plague? No.

I lay myself down on the couch, holding my phone over my face.

Tell her to drink tea.

Does Not Exist: Emerson. She’s not even two.

Soup?

Does Not Exist: Are you offering to get her soup?

I sit back up.

Am I?

Am I?

Is Dillon…offering me an in to his house?

My mind races. All the possibilities. Does he have more boxes of Morgan’s? Does he have ripped up pictures of my brother and him scattered in his fireplace? All the snooping opportunities…

Does she even eat solids?

Does Not Exist: omg. make it the can with alphabet noodles or she’ll throw the bowl at you.

Dillon

I got the notification from my porch camera the second Emery stepped foot by the front door. Penny and I watch him for five whole minutes on my phone screen as he taps his foot. Glares at the door. Looks around like he wants to ensure no one witnesses him standing there with a can of soup in one hand and a massive pink unicorn stuffy in the other.

He mutters something about “hot dads” and “heartburn”. It’s alarming how long it takes for him to see the camera—the damn thing is face level with him. His dark brows shoot up to his hairline though when he spots it. “Has this camera always been here?”

I snort and press the speaker button. “Are you coming in, or were you going to stand there all day?”

He glares straight into the camera, and I cover Penny’s eyes a second before Emery’s hot pink painted middle finger flashes on the screen. The door behind me opens with a soft whoosh and closes with a click.

Penny wiggles in my lap immediately. I’m already biting back a smile when I set her down. As soon as her little bare feet hit the floor, she's off, running in the direction of the entryway where Emery is stalling.

“Oh, hello there small Montgomery,” he says curtly. Like she’s a business colleague he’s forced to interact with, not a toddler he offered to come see.

I turn to see Penny stop in front of him, making her raised grabby hands that means she wants to be picked up.

Normally, Warren comes to see her on Tuesdays before the evening classes he instructs at the gym. I sniff, ignoring the flash of annoyance I get just thinking about the moron.

“Uh, here,” Emery says, thrusting the giant stuffed unicorn at Penny.

My little girl makes an excited squeal sound, taking the stuffy and shoving her face into the pink fur. “Pik cow,” she yells. “Pik cow. Mooo.”

Emerson frowns again, nose scrunched. “That is not a cow, Penelope. It’s a unicorn.”

“Pik cow!” Penny yells, shaking the thing at Emery. “Cow.”

He sighs, “Yes, I brought you a pink farm animal. And gourmet soup.” He passes my kid the can. Penny drops it, looks at Emery like it’s his fault. Emery looks at her like she’s enough days old now that she should be more efficient at life.