Annoyed, I jam the folder back into the disaster that is the store shelf and push the cart down the aisle.
“This box has ten crayons, Mommy. The List says I need the eight box,” Regan explains to Chelsea, who looks as frustrated as I feel.
“There aren’t any eight-crayon boxes, Regan.”
The midget shrugs. “Then we have to go to a different store.”
There’s no way the person who made these lists actually has kids. They should be shot. And at this moment, I would defend the person who shoots them, pro bono. Just saying.
Rory hands me a dictionary. “This only has nineteen thousand words—I need the twenty-one-thousand-word edition.” Then he smirks. “Don’t want to start the year off on the wrong foot. I need all the right feet I can get.”
He’s got a point there.
“Jake!” Raymond runs up to me from the end of the aisle. “Can I get this science calculator? It’s awesome!”
I glance at the calculator in his hand—it has more buttons than I’ve ever seen in my life. Only Raymond would get excited about a calculator.
“Sure, kiddo.”
“Sweet!”
I push my cart up beside my wife’s. “How we doing?”
She sighs. “Twenty items down—only about a hundred left. And that’s not counting the epic saga of backpack selection.”
I don’t remember needing so much shit when I was in school. It was a good day if I had a pencil in my pocket.
Chelsea lifts her purse and gestures to the box under it. A pregnancy test. “I picked this up for us. It says it can show results five days before my period’s due, so even though I haven’t missed it yet, we can take the test tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.”
Her eyes dance with hope. With excitement. When Sofia was pregnant with Samuel she experienced morning sickness. A lot. So I squeeze Chelsea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The way we’ve been going at it, you’ll be puking your guts out in no time.”
She smiles.
Then her lovely face straightens as she remembers something. “Speaking of which, you should talk to Riley today. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“No, I didn’t forget. Unfortunately.”
With sex and pregnancy at the forefront of our thoughts lately, Chelsea thinks it’s important that we talk to Riley about safe sex.
And by “we” she means fucking me.
She read somewhere about the positive effect a male relationship has on young girls and she thinks, coming from a guy, the information will have more of an impact.
I get it. It’s just going to be the most awkward, uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some winners, believe me.
Chelsea runs her hand over my chest. “What’s the matter? Big, tough guy like you afraid to talk to a teenage girl?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Afraid? No. Just never thought I’d think of the time I took her to a One Direction concert as the good old days.”
Chelsea laughs. Then walks over when Regan calls her to look at puppy-covered notebooks.
“I’m booored,” Ronan whines from his seat in my cart.
“We’re almost done.”
“This sucks.” He frowns.
“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” I tell him in my best “parental” voice. “It’s not a nice word.”
His devil-cute blue eyes meet mine. “But it does suck.”
I hold back a grin. Because I have a weakness for the pure honesty kids have at his age—before they learn to weigh their words or shadow their opinions.
I rub his head, messing up his thick blond hair. “Yeah, it does.”
****
That afternoon, I bite the bullet and stick my head through Riley’s bedroom door—she’s lying on her bed, phone in hand.
“Hey.”
She plucks an earbud from her ear. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Got a second?”
Her long-lashed eyes narrow. “I didn’t do it.”
Preemptive denial—always suspicious.
“Do what?”
“Whatever you want to talk to me about. It wasn’t me.”
“Noted.” I jerk my head toward the spare bedroom. “Come on.”
She gets up and follows, throwing her brown curly hair up into a messy bun. We walk into the yellow-walled spare bedroom a few doors down the hall, and I close the door behind us. Riley sits on the bed with a half-annoyed sigh—like I’m wasting her precious time. As if there weren’t a hundred other things I’d rather be doing—like getting a root canal without Novocain.
I cross my arms, look at her, and imagine I’m in court, talking to a witness. Calm, cool, and steady—that’s my job. And I’m fucking good at it.
“So . . . you and Peter . . . how’s that going?”
Her brow wrinkles. “Uh, fine?”
“Six months is a long time in high school years.”
“I guess.”
“Is that like a candy anniversary?”
And now she looks even more weirded out. “What are you talking about, Jake?”
“Okay, here’s the deal—your aunt and I have noticed that you and Peter seem . . . pretty serious. And . . . we want to make sure you’re being safe.”
The last word hangs heavy in the air. Like one of Cousin It’s rancid dog farts.