Page 39 of Older
Reed scratched his chin and sniffed. “Scott started dating George shortly after this game was released. They share an apartment in Los Angeles and have a dog named Marshmallow.”
We both giggled as Tara grabbed another card.
“I see you, Spencer,” Reed said, glaring at the image. “A former small-time criminal turned born-again Christian. Once entangled in a world of check fraud and tax evasion, Spencer found redemption through the church. Spencer is proof that change is possible, even though I’d still never allow him within a ten-mile radius of my daughter.”
I couldn’t breathe, I was laughing so hard.
Whitney poked her head out of the kitchen, a half-smile turned up on her lips and a dish rag in her hands. “What am I missing?”
“Dad is profiling the Dream Phone dudes,” Tara managed to say between bouts of belly laughter. “He doesn’t like Spencer.”
She glanced at the card. “Spencer looks…nice.”
“He’s not nice,” Reed cut in, tone teasing. “C’mon, Whit. It’s our job to protect these girls from the Spencers of the world.”
These girls.
Plural.
My laughter tapered off as I sank back down to my knees, my gaze catching with Reed’s for a beat before I cleared my throat. “Don’t worry, Spencer’s not my type. I prefer Bob.”
Tara swatted my arm. “The forty-year-old school chaperone? Yikes, Hals. I need to get you out of the house more often and broaden your potential dating pool. There’s a party next weekend I plan to lure you to.”
“Will Bob be there?” I yawned, leaning back on my good hand.
Tara cringed. “Trust me. You don’t want Bob.”
There was a strange, subtle undertone to her statement, but I let it slide.
Whitney joined us in the living room a few minutes later with a handful of loose-leaf paper and pencils. “I couldn’t find Pictionary. I think we sold it in the garage sale last spring,” she said, plopping down beside Reed on the couch. “We can make our own version. Kids versus adults.”
My stomach soured.
I hated being called a kid. I was a legal adult, and I knew I didn’t look like a kid. Not to mention, I’d seen far more in my eighteen years than most adults had.
Reed tossed a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, and the trace scent of spearmint traveled over to me. “I’ve got about thirty minutes before I should head out. I have a client tonight.”
We took turns drawing pictures.
Nobody was very good, but for thirty minutes, the world fell away. Warmth filtered its way inside me. Laughter echoed louder than my demons that hummed and sneered in the back of my mind. Ladybug sidled up against me, her soft fur grazing my thigh as I scratched her belly in contentment.
I was the last one to take a turn drawing before we wrapped up the game. The mustard-yellow hourglass plucked from a different game spilled tiny grains of sand into the bottom of the piece while I jutted my tongue between my lips in concentration.
A long step. Little buds. Blossoming petals.
“A flower!” Tara yelled as I waved my hand to keep her guessing. “A pretty flower?”
I pointed to my tank top, a vibrant shade of blue.
“A shirt. A blue shirt. A sunflower shirt.”
“Sunflowers aren’t blue,” I practically growled.
“You’re not allowed to talk!” she shouted back. “Um, shit, this is way too specific.” She chewed on her lip, deep in thought. “A tulip?”
I sighed. Attempting to redirect, I started drawing a boombox with little musical notes circling it. I jabbed the tip of my pencil to the radio, then back to the flower, then back again, leaving scuffs of lead dots behind.
Tara shook her head with frustration. “What the hell is that? A singing flower?” she questioned. “Oh! A Venus flytrap!”