Now I had my own apartment, a decent job, and health insurance. No more state assistance, either—that was a nice change. Most of my childhood had been spent on welfare, and I remembered all too well how people looked down on me and my mom for that. They’d looked down on my dad, too, but I didn’t care about that. He was just the drunk in the living room.
“So what’s the plan?” Reese asked as they reached the picnic shelter.
“Cake!” Izzie shouted. “Cake cake cake cake! Izzy cake!”
“Sounds like we’re having cake,” I said dryly, shaking off my darker thoughts. “I’ll grab the matches.”
“Got it,” Reese said, pulling out a Zippo. He didn’t smoke, so I’d never quite understood why he carried it—guess the ability to set fires at any time is a useful one. He handed it over to Loni, who lit the candles as I pulled out my phone to record the moment. Painter swung Izzy down and plopped her in front of the sticky pyramid.
“Happy birthday to you . . .” we all sang, with Isabella singing the loudest. She clapped her hands, and when we finished she lunged for a cupcake, grabbing the one with the candles still flaming.
“Shit,” Painter said, jumping forward to catch it. Izzy turned on him in a rage, smacking his arm.
“Mine!”
“Isabella, that’s not okay,” I said firmly. She glared at me.
“Izzy cake.”
“You can have the cake when you say sorry,” I told her. Her glare turned dark and she looked even more like her daddy, only this was funny instead of scary. Jess snorted. “No inappropriate feedback, please.”
Painter shot me a look. “It’s her birthday, Mel. Don’t be a hard-ass.”
Oh no. No fucking way—he didn’t get to undermine me like that. Not to mention his language . . .
“Izzy can have the cake when she says sorry for hitting you,” I said. He set the cupcake down in front of her, deliberately. I cocked my head, glaring at him.
“Isabella, say sorry,” Jess said, catching her attention. “Say it with Auntie Jess?”
The little girl looked at Jessica and smiled. “Sowwy.”
I sighed in relief, realizing this could be a sign of things to come—Izzy was a smart kid. Too smart. If she realized she could play her parents against each other, we’d be screwed by the time she hit middle school.
I felt another wave of near panic hit—if I couldn’t control a two-year-old, how was I supposed to control a middle schooler?
“Okay, princess. Cupcake time,” Painter said, swinging a leg over to straddle the bench next to her. She beamed at him, shoving it into her mouth without paying the slightest attention to me. It was always like that . . . Izzy was daddy’s girl, through and through.
I hated it, and I sort of hated myself, too.
What kind of crazy woman is jealous of her own daughter?
? ? ?
“She’s gonna do fine,” Painter said, giving me a cool look. We stood next to each other under the picnic shelter, watching Izzy play chase with Jessica on the playground equipment. He’d lost all the smiles now that we were alone. Prison had impacted him even more deeply this time. He’d gone darker, more still. His art was darker, too. From what I’d seen in his studio, there was a new power to his painting, but also a new sense of danger.
No wonder his works were selling like crazy.
Seemed a little unfair, actually. Painter committed crimes and went to jail, and all it did was titillate potential buyers. I busted ass and worked hard, but I still couldn’t afford a new car. The fact that he’d offered to buy me one just made it sting more.
Asshole.
“You promise you’ll call if she gets scared?” I said, hating this entire situation.
“Sure,” he replied. “But she won’t. She loves my place, and it’s not like she’s never been away from home—she’s spent the night with London and Reese. She’ll do fine. You need to stop worrying.”
“Okay,” I whispered, defeated. “I’ll be out this evening, but I’d still really appreciate it if you let her call me at bedtime. I want to say good night.”
“Out where?” he asked casually. I shot him a look.
“With a friend.”
“Date?”
“None of your damned business,” I snapped. Shit. Why had I done that? Way too defensive, which was a dead giveaway.