Blythe’s mouth pulled in a tight grin. “Even if I was the third choice?”
“Please, Blythe?” Quinn said, curls bobbing as she bounced in place. “Otherwise Cheyenne Miller said she’d ask her mother, and let me tell you—that would be a fiasco.”
“And why is that?” Blythe asked as April slid off the barstool to make tracks toward the small bathroom off the kitchen. For the third time that morning. Which, apparently, Mel had noticed as well, given her raised eyebrows at Blythe.
An oblivious Quinn huffed a sigh as Blythe found herself facing down something that looked an awful lot like the green-eyed monster. What the hell? You, out, she mentally commanded. Now—
“Okay,” the kid said, “so Cheyenne’s mom is divorced from her dad, right? And our civics teacher—Mr. Corey, he’s the one taking us to D.C.—is single, too. And whenever there’s like a parents’ day at school or something—ohmigod, it’s so gross, the way she’s, like, all over him.”
“I’ve seen the woman in action,” Mel said, flipping a page. “It really is gross. Like a hawk swooping in on a dove. An aging, sad, pathetically desperate hawk.” She chuckled. “On a very young, pathetically clueless dove.”
“Seriously,” Quinn said. “She even has these fake nails that look like talons.” She shuddered. “Anyway, so Mr. Corey was saying we needed to rotate the parents, so the ‘burden’—” she made air quotes “—wouldn’t fall on one or two people. But it’s like so obvious that what he was really doing was pleading for someone else to volunteer so he wouldn’t have to watch his back the whole time.” She curled her fingers, miming claws, then shook her head. “Not to mention poor Cheyenne is mortified to pieces. Woman is brutal, I tell you. Brutal—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” Blythe said, laughing, even though she could still see the monster out of the corner of her eye, lurking. Biding its time. “Anything to save poor Mr. Corey from Cheyenne’s mother.”
On the island in front of them, Mel’s phone rang. Quinn picked it up, glanced at the display and handed it to her mother. “It’s Ryder. Again.”
Grinning, Mel clamped the phone to her ear and disappeared through the swinging door leading to the dining room. The monster chuckled; Blythe ignored it. Sort of. She smiled for her younger cousin. “Tell you what—I’ll even make a reservation at my favorite restaurant for you guys for lunch. Everybody likes Italian, right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess, but...all of us?”
“Yes, all of you—”
“Can we ask Jack’s dad, too?”
Mouth agape, Blythe blinked stupidly. Good God—had the wedding crazies afflicted everybody in the family? Bad enough that her grown cousins had been dropping more than the occasional pointed comment about Wes and how there he was, all single and probably lonely and whatnot, over the past several weeks, but when an eleven-year-old joins the fray you know you’re screwed.
Never mind that Blythe had taken great care not to even mention Wes since finishing Jack’s room. Let alone seen, or heard from, the man. Not that she hadn’t thought about him, but that little detail she’d kept to herself. And would continue to keep to herself, for obvious reasons. She’d been grateful for the break, frankly, hoping the time apart had given Wes a chance to come to his senses.
“We could invite him, sure,” she said with a slight shrug, “but he’ll probably be tied up—”
“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Quinn said, nodding so hard she blurred. “Jack already asked his dad, he said he’d love to meet up with us. He’s cleared his schedule and everything. So lunch would be great!”
You little turkey, Blythe thought, then asked, “And when, exactly, did Jack ask his father about getting together with your class?”
And although Quinn’s forehead scrunched, Blythe didn’t miss the flush staining her younger cousin’s cheeks. “Um, I don’t know. Last week, I guess?”
“Long before you asked me to tag along, in other words.” When Quinn lowered her eyes to the island, fingering one of the photographs, Blythe blew out a breath. “Even though you know Jack has issues with me.”
The girl’s gaze shot to Blythe’s before she pushed a breath through her nose. “Right now Jack has issues with everything. And everybody. And frankly I think he needs to get over himself. You and his dad would be so perfect together—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa...” Blythe caught Quinn’s hand in hers. “And you, sweetie,” she said gently, “need to back off and let people work out whatever they need to work out without your interference. Trust me, those things never end well—”
“Jack’s dad likes you. I can tell. And you can’t tell me you don’t like him.”
“We haven’t even seen each other in weeks—”
“Yeah.” Quinn’s eyes turned steely. “I know.”
Oh, dear. “You know, people can be friends without anything more happening than that.”
“Because you don’t want it to happen?”
“Or because it’s not meant to happen.”
“But how do you know that?”
“I just do,” Blythe said. “Even apart from Jack’s objections.” At Quinn’s glower, she chuckled. “Look, right now all of you have wedding fever. But strange as it might seem I actually like being single. Because,” she said to the girl’s frown, tugging her to her side, “for the first time in my life I’m finally giving myself permission to be myself. To be by myself. Find out who I really am. What I really want. I’m in a good place, really. A place without...complications. And I like it here.”
Not a lie, for the most part. Hadn’t been, anyway, before she’d met Wes and a loud chorus of what-ifs, like a bunch of noisy frogs, had taken up residence in her head. And, yes, between them and the monster it was getting quite crowded in there.
“So you’re saying you’re never getting married again? Or that you’d never even have another boyfriend?”
“Not necessarily. I’m not a fortune-teller. But I do think Jack’s dad and I want different things. I may be way off base, but I’m guessing Wes wants, and needs, a wife as much as Jack doesn’t want a new mother. And I can’t be either of those things to either of them.”
“Not now, you mean.”
“No. Not now. And timing plays a huge part in whether or not a relationship works out.” Not to mention, even if one were to set all the other objections aside, how the skeletons in one person’s closet—say, hers—could, and in all likelihood would, wreak havoc with another person’s—say, Wes’s—goals. To your average Joe Schmoe, her youthful indiscretions might not make a lick of difference. To someone in the public eye, however... “And why are you so hot on this, anyway? It has nothing to do with you, really.”
To Blythe’s surprise, tears swam in the girl’s baby blues. “Because it hurts me to see Jack so mad and unhappy all the time. I know what that feels like,” Quinn said as she palmed her chest. Referring, Blythe assumed, to Quinn’s own reaction to her discovery that Ryder’s brother was her birth father, a secret her mother had been forced to keep from her. “And I can’t help thinking that if you and his dad gave each other a chance...” She shrugged.
Her eyes burning in sympathy, Blythe nestled her cheek in her little cousin’s hair. “You think that would fix things for Jack?” When Quinn nodded, Blythe gave her a squeeze. “Jack probably has no idea how lucky he is to have you as his friend,” she said, then held Quinn apart to look in her eyes. “But it’s not up to you to make it all better for him. Or me. And as his friend, you need to give him room to work this out with his father, and in his own time. You can’t force things to go the way you want them to. No matter how well-meaning your intentions might be.”
After a long moment, Quinn let out a shaky sigh. “I suppose you’re right.” Then her mouth pulled to one side. “But I still don’t want Cheyenne Miller’s mom to come with us.”
Blythe s
miled. “I’ll still come with you on your field trip, if it means that much to you. But if Jack goes ballistic—”
“It’s okay, I’ll handle it.” Then she threw her arms around Blythe’s neck and whispered, “I love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetie,” Blythe whispered back as Mel and April both returned to the kitchen, giggling.
“Guess what, y’all?” April said, holding aloft a pregnancy test, the plus sign in the little box probably visible from space.
And the green-eyed monster started doing a brain-rattling jig.
Chapter Eight
Jack had been so mad when he found out Blythe was coming along on the field trip, he’d told Quinn he was too busy to hang out with her. Because it wasn’t like she didn’t know how he felt about Blythe. Of course, that wasn’t the problem, the problem was how his dad felt about Blythe. Like the way he kept looking at her now, even though they were at opposite ends of the long table in the restaurant so they couldn’t actually talk to each other—it made Jack’s stomach hurt so much he didn’t even want to eat.
Across from him, Quinn sipped her soda through a straw, her eyes all big and sorry. Too bad. The last thing he needed was some girl trying to run his life. Some pushy, smartypants girl who thought she knew everything about everything. Everything about him, anyway. About what he wanted.
Even though he didn’t feel like it, Jack turned to talk to the kid next to him, some boy named Brandon who was kind of a pain in the butt, to be honest. But anything was better than having to look at that traitor—
“So,” Brandon was saying, “I got this really cool game for my birthday. Teen-rated and everything. Wanna come over and play it sometime?”
“Maybe,” Jack said, only half listening as he watched his teacher and Blythe talking a mile a minute to each other. Hey—maybe they’d hit it off and start going out, and his dad would forget about her. He glanced down the table to see if Dad was watching them, but Darnelle Freedman was too busy yakking his ear off for him to notice—
That funny feeling started up in his chest, the one that happened when he thought about Mom. All these people, laughing and talking, and he felt...empty. Alone. Like none of this had anything to do with him.
His eyes got all stingy, like he was going to cry; panicked, he shoved himself to his feet, the funny feeling getting worse. Tighter, like he couldn’t breathe. He caught Quinn frowning at him, heard his teacher asking if he was okay.
He booked it out of the restaurant like a total dork, barely missing a waiter carrying a full tray.
* * *
Wes bolted from his chair, catching Blythe’s concerned gaze, the connection—despite not having spoken to each other for a month—so intense it startled him.
Air whooshed from his lungs when he found Jack outside the restaurant, his face in his hands as he hunched over on the cast-iron bench in front of the window. Breathing out the adrenaline spike, Wes sat beside him, fighting the impulse to haul the raggedly breathing boy to his side. Kid was probably embarrassed enough. He settled instead for gently rubbing his back; Jack glanced up, then clamped the bench on either side of his thighs, gaze fixed in front of him. A woman pushing a jabbering baby in a stroller passed, then the mailman, who nodded in their direction before shoving a handful of envelopes through the mail slot in the door.
“You didn’t have to leave,” Jack murmured as the carrier continued down the street.
“You expected me to let you run off?”
“Sorry,” Jack mumbled, then sighed. “But I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Not a chance I was willing to take.” Wes squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
Not surprisingly, the boy shook his head, just as Blythe, trailed by an obviously upset Quinn, emerged from the restaurant. A breeze caught the hem of Blythe’s ankle-length sundress, plastering it to her body, and enough longing winnowed through Wes’s frustration to be worrisome.
“Everything okay?” she mouthed, sympathy flooding her eyes, and something even more insane surged inside him, an impulse to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, that she had every bit as much right to get good as to give it.
But now was not the time. So instead Wes nodded, then shrugged, as relief replaced the deflating panic that Jack hadn’t taken off for parts unknown. He was right here where Wes could touch him, see that he was safe.
Blythe released her own breath, her hand closing around Quinn’s when the girl reached for it, her mouth tucked down at the corners.
As well it should be, since Wes had gleaned from Jack’s ramblings a few days before that Quinn had in large part brought about this little scenario. Her distraught expression now, however, mitigated Wes’s annoyance. And under other circumstances he might have found her machinations amusing, in a 1960s Disney movie sort of way.
Then Quinn released her cousin’s hand, creeping closer to squat in front of Jack, her distressed expression far too grown-up for her flouncy little sundress and sparkly flat shoes.
Jack jerked his head to the side. “Go away.”
Wes cupped Jack’s knee. “Easy, son—”
“It’s okay, Mr. Phillips,” Quinn said, giving him a tiny, contrite smile. “Because I know I messed up. I shouldn’t’ve...” Wes saw her glance at Blythe, hanging back out of Jack’s sight. Quinn faced Jack again, her mouth scrunched. “I didn’t mean to make you so unhappy—”
“You really don’t get it, do you?” He surged off the bench and past Quinn, stomping down the street. “You can’t fix this!”
“Jack! For heaven’s sake!” Wes caught up to the boy, grabbed his arm. “I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to—”
“To what?” He spun around, his face reddening when he apparently noticed Blythe. “You don’t know how I feel, nobody does! And you’re not my mom, and...”
“Hey!” Quinn rushed him, staggering backward when Jack brushed off her touch. “It’s not their fault, it’s all mine! Be mad at me if you want, but—”
“Jack, honey,” Blythe said, tugging Quinn to her side, “your dad and I haven’t even seen each other since I finished your room—”
“I’m not stupid, for crying out loud! Like I can’t see how he looks at you? Even if he hadn’t already told me he likes you!” Wrecked eyes again found Wes’s. “How could you, Dad?” he cried, his voice cracking. “How could you do that to Mom? To me—?”
The rest of his class began trickling out onto the sidewalk, chattering like a flock of starlings. Swiping at his eyes, Jack practically rammed his nose into a nearby boutique’s window. Most of the kids barely spared him a glance as they moseyed down the street in the opposite direction, toward the lot where their van was parked. However, one gangly, grinning, obviously brave kid in glasses and a local band’s T-shirt ambled over to Jack, asked if he was okay. Jack glared at him, causing the boy to back up, hands raised.
“Whoa, dude. Just asking,” he said, then turned and loped away to join the others. Before Wes could take him to task, however, Quinn marched over and smacked Jack’s arm.
“Ow!” Jack bellowed and spun around, clamping the spot where she’d slugged him. “What was that for?”
“For being an idiot!” Quinn said, her own arms folded over her chest. “I get that you miss your mom, okay? We all get it. And it’s sad and awful, and I’m sorry you feel bad. But for one thing, if your dad likes Blythe, that’s not a bad thing. Because you know you like her, too, and you can’t tell me you don’t. And for another, if you don’t stop acting like the whole world is your enemy, that’s how the whole world is going to treat you. Far as I can tell, I’m the only friend you have left, and I’m this close—” she pinched her thumb and forefinger together, an inch from his face “—to telling you where to get off. So you might want to think about that.”
Holy hell, Wes
thought as Quinn made tracks down the sidewalk. He looked at his glowering son, staring after Quinn.
“Jack—”
“Dad, don’t.”
“You going to be okay?”
The kid’s gaze slammed into his. “Like I have any choice?” he said, then slogged off after his class.
“That one definitely takes after her mother,” Blythe said from a few feet away. “And thank goodness you were here, since I doubt Mr. Corey could have handled that.”
“And I did?”
“At least Jack knows you care. In every way that counts.” She hefted her large purse up onto her shoulder. “And I guess I’d better follow—”
“He’s right, you know.”
Questioning eyes met his. “About what?”
Wes waited until a hand-holding couple passed, then an old woman walking her poodle. “About how I look at you. What I said. Because I do like you, Blythe Broussard. I like you a lot. And all these weeks without seeing you hasn’t changed that—”
“Ms. Broussard?” Mr. Corey called over.
“Coming!” Blythe called, then hustled to join the group, the hem of her sundress fluttering with some agitation as she walked.
* * *
Everybody but him, Jack immediately noticed when they got off the bus back in St. Mary’s, had somebody to pick them up. And he’d told his grandfather like a hundred times he’d be back by six. He’d even texted him at lunch—before everything exploded in his face—to remind him.
He dug his phone out of his pocket, only to frown when he realized it had gone dead because he’d forgotten to charge it last night.
“Jack?” he heard Mr. Corey say behind him.
His heart banging against his ribs, he spun around to see him and Blythe by her open car door, both of them wearing don’t-freak-out smiles. Quinn was on the other side of the seat, kind of hunched over so she could see him. Jack’s face heated when he thought about what she’d said to him. How mad she’d gotten. How she’d hung with Brandon, of all people, while they’d been at the museum, and then sat with him on the bus for the ride home. But it served him right, didn’t it—?
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