Chapter Five

Maggie

I hate to say it but the burgers Trig made are amazing. I can’t stand the guy and don’t want him to know I went for seconds of something he cooked but he totally busts me. He doesn’t say anything but he winks at me as I pass with another burger.

We’re sitting outside, in the backyard, all of us gathered around the picnic tables Wes and Trig set up this morning. I come back from the kitchen with my second burger and Jane sees me with the second burger and broadcasts that she’s proud I’m getting my appetite. Trig smirks.

Jane’s determined to turn me into a happy camper. How do I know this? She told me, using those exact words. I’m determined to turn you into a happy camper. That was last night while I was trying to recover from my little outing with Trig, the maniac. She noticed how quiet I was, saying I just wasn’t myself. Uh. No. My life flashed before my eyes, a hundred fucking times thanks to your insane brother-in-law.

Her solution? A manicure. For me!

She was so happy about the idea, I didn’t have the heart to say no. The only thing I refused was the pedi, because her touching my feet seems just a little too personal. When she started, she massaged my hand and I thought I might fall asleep right there. No one’s touched me since my mother died. I made the mistake of telling her that when she was done and she looked like she wanted to burst into tears.

Totally awkward. But nice, in a way. I fell asleep by nine, exhausted.

My mother never did stuff like that. She loved me in an absent-minded sort of way. Every so often she’d touch my chin, lean down and say, I love you Maggie Callaghan. Don’t you ever forget it. Then she’d hurry away to grade papers or work on a poem. I existed in her periphery.

Jane, on the other hand, wants to know everything. What sorts of music I like. Who’s my favorite actor?

Even now, sitting in the backyard, I catch her glancing over at me. Checking on me and the boys. Making sure all is well in her little realm.

I don’t talk to anyone and try to tune out Thomas, sitting beside me. In between bites of his burger he acts out a battle between a baby carrot and a cucumber slice. He makes crashing, battle noises that escalate until either the carrot or cucumber meet a heroic death. Then he shoves the fallen vegetable into his mouth and a moment later another battle begins.

After the third cucumber slice is taken out by a carrot, he grins up at me, looking for a response. Softly, so only he can hear, I hum a few bars of Taps. He grins. I’m not sure if it’s because he understands the song’s meaning or if he’s amazed I’m not scowling at him.

Then I hear it. A woman talking. One of the moms. She’s sitting at the same table as Trig and she’s telling someone about how noble Wes and Jane are. My skin crawls. Thankfully, Thomas is too involved in his warring vegetables to notice. The other boys sit on the other side of the yard so can’t possibly hear this bitch.

Slowly I turn to glare at the woman.

“…poor little homeless strays…that Jane…don’t know how she does it…”

Trig’s not listening. Instead he checks his messages on his phone but everyone else at the table bobs their head in agreement.

The woman yammers on about Good Samaritans and special places in heaven when Jane jumps to her feet, claps her hands, announces there’s cake and ice cream for dessert. She looks at me with alarm and I know she’s trying to get the woman off the topic of homeless strays.

I can’t eat another bite.

Jane purses her lips and shakes her head. It’s like she’s trying to apologize for this woman, but her sympathy only pisses me off more. I wish I could slip back into the house and disappear. I don’t want to be part of this. The minute you relax and start to settle in, something or someone shows up to let you know you don’t belong.

Michael jogs past. “Want to play catch?”

A few minutes ago, I might have said yes, but not now. I tilt my head. “What do you think?”

He stops. “Um… no?”

I paste a smile to my lips. “Go away.”

With a shrug, he turns and runs to the boys who’ve gathered to toss the ball back and forth. Thomas abandons his lunch and follows Michael. They’re all more interested in throwing a stupid ball than in the cake Jane baked. There’s a table full of sweets because every mom brought something with her.

From behind me a man speaks. “Aren’t you going to play ball, cutie-pie?”

Cutie-pie… I scoff at his words. I’m sure the kid he’s talking to doesn’t appreciate the endearment. I watch the boys playing and think of other descriptions for them – none of them polite.

“Mind if I sit with you?” the man asks.

It dawns on me the guy is addressing me, calling me cutie-pie. I stare in disbelief at him. He’s tall and blond with a too-bright smile, like he whitens every time the wind changes. His hair is perfect. To me he looks like a newscaster or a spokesperson. Maybe for toothpaste. I’m tempted to tell him to go away too.

Without waiting for permission to sit, he takes the empty spot across from me.

Tugging my attention from his really good hair, I’m struck by the way he wears his polo shirt, with the collar up. I fight the urge to lean forward and yank it down. Does he have any idea how dumb he looks?

“I’ve been watching you ever since I got here. Wondering.”

The intense stare he gives me makes me question if this guy might be one crayon short. He says nothing and I know this is the part where I’m supposed to ask what he’s wondering about. But I don’t. I’m going to let him fill the quiet and if he starts talking about homeless strays, I’m done with this stupid party.

He raises his index finger. “Number one, I’m wondering what you’d look like without that black hair.”

Either he’s trying to be neighborly or he’s trying to be creepy.

“Without black hair? Bald, I guess.”

Ignoring me, he goes on. “Number two, I’m wondering if you’re really as smart as they say.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“I’m smarter.”

With a wink, he raises a third finger. “I’m wondering if you babysit.”

I shake my head slowly. “I have never babysat and I have no plans to start.”

“I bet if I offered enough, you’d reconsider.” His gaze wanders from my eyes down to my mouth and back up again.

Ugh. Gross.

Trig comes to the table and sits beside me. Ignoring the d-bag sitting across from me, he points to the cake on his plate. “Did you make this?”

Did I bake a cake? What is it with these guys thinking I do all this domestic shit?

“No. Jane made it.”

He smiles, clearly pleased, grabs his fork like it’s a shovel and proceeds to demolish the slab of cake. It looks like he served himself half the pan.

“You got a kid here, buddy?” Trig asks the d-bag.

“Ah, yes. Trevor over in the pale-yellow shirt. He’s mine.”

D-bag points at his kid, but Trig doesn’t bother to look. He keeps his attention squarely on the guy.

“Did your wife make one of the desserts?”

The man flushes. “No. I’m separated.”

“That’s too bad.” Trig takes another bite of cake.

“That’s why I was asking this young lady if she’d baby sit for me. I have a few dates coming up.”

Trig shakes his head. “She doesn’t babysit. And even if she did, she needs to check stuff with me. And I wouldn’t let her work for some guy I don’t know.”

D-bag opens his mouth to protest, but Trig cuts him off. “Go throw the ball with your kid. That’s the point of the party.”

The guy looks a little stunned, but keeps his mouth shut. After he leaves, Trig grumbles. “Don’t talk to strangers, Maggie.”

I almost laugh at how quickly and efficiently Trig dispatches the man, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

“I don’t need a boss, Trig.”

“You totally need a boss. And I’ve picked one out for you. Me.”

I scoff. I’d argue but what would be the point? I don’t want to babysit that d-bag’s little twerp. Trig can just think he won that round because I couldn’t care less. He gives me a long look, intense and heated, daring me to say something. I can’t help notice how his shirt hugs his muscles. He’s massive and sparks of awareness dance across my skin.

There’s no way to understand what makes a guy like that tick. I’ll never forget how frightened I was yesterday. I was terrified. Last night I was determined to hate him, but just when I decide the man is a flat-out monster, he’ll do something half-way nice, like chasing away D-bag. r the other night when he gave me the last dinner roll – even buttering it for me.

He finishes his cake and heads back to the dessert table. I watch his easy gait and the way he helps a kid cut the Rice Krispy squares. He thinks he can boss me around? I’ll let him think that. He may be handsome in a rough sort of way, sexy even, but he’s not worth the argument. In May, I’m out of here.