CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
“It shouldn’t, no. But if it does, I will pay for it to get fixed. Then send you and your mama to the spa for the day.”
Giggling again, she sat down. “Now I’m kind of wishing that it does dye my hair orange.”
“Cheeky.” I gently tugged on her earlobe before gathering her hair—which did still have a bit of an odor to it—and placed it into the bowl of pureed tomatoes.
“You’re not going to cook with this after, are you?”
“No. I will put it in the compost.”
Her body shook a little in a deep, relaxing sigh. “I don’t understand why people are so mean. They have to know that they’re being mean, right?”
“Si. Of course they do. They just lack the capacity to care.”
“I couldn’t imagine being mean to someone at all, let alone the way Clyde is mean to me.”
“Because you have a pure heart, piccola.”
“What does that mean, ‘piccola’?” She couldn’t really look at me where I stood beside her, so I sat down in the adjacent chair to make it a bit easier.
“It means ‘little one,’ or ‘small.’ It is a common term of affection or endearment in Italy for young girls.”
Her eyes—the same shade as her mother’s—lit up. “Oh. I like that.”
We sat there in my kitchen talking for quite a while.
I wasn’t sure I’d have much to talk to a ten-year-old about, but she kept the conversation flowing.
Mostly speaking about anxiety—to my surprise.
She described what her anxiety felt like in her body, and that until her mom got her to see the doctor and she started taking medicine, she would bite her hands and pull on her hair until it came out.
Then she would shred it. She said the pain helped her feel something besides all the static in her brain.
“I would take my mother’s sewing needles and jab them into the tops of my legs through my pants,” I told her.
“Over and over again. Until one day my mother saw the bloodstains on my jeans and asked me what it was about. We didn’t medicate back then though.
And my parents were old-school. They told me to stop.
To suck it up and be tough. Be a footballer.
My father even told me to fight back. So I started taking a lighter and burning around my ankles, just below my sock line.
Where nobody could see. It wasn’t until I sat down with my team psychologist—in my twenties—that I was diagnosed with anxiety and medicated. ”
She blinked at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Grazie, piccola. I am happy you have a mom who advocates for you. Who is helping you get help now.”
Sam nodded a little. “I’m sorry you didn’t.”
I smiled. “I had wonderful parents. Things were just different then.”
“How long do you think I need to keep my hair in here?”
I glanced at my watch. “Ten or fifteen more minutes?”
“Okay.”
The front door opened, and Danica walked in, her gaze immediately falling on her daughter with her head in a bowl of tomato puree. “Hi?”
“I still smell like dog poo,” Sam said. “So Tom pureed some canned tomatoes, and we put my hair in it.”
“I will not serve you this for dinner,” I said to Danica as she ditched her shoes and came to join us, amusement written all over face.
“Glad to hear it.” She pressed a kiss to the back of Sam’s neck, then one to the top of my head. “Mouse wanted to trot today. Which was a bit of a shock to me, but she was so patient and gentle, until I got the feel for it and figured out how to bounce in the seat and not break my butt.”
Covertly, I patted her butt affectionately.
“What are we having for dinner tonight?” Sam asked.
I loved that she just assumed they were staying for dinner and that I was cooking.
For a kid with anxiety as bad as hers, and who came here that first day nervous but eager to be with the animals, she was so comfortable with me now, and I cherished that honor.
I shrugged. “Pizza?”
Her eyes lit up. “Have I told you I love you yet?”
My heart nearly exploded in my chest, and I grinned wide. “No, piccola. But I have not said it to you either.”
Her smile was like summer sunshine on my face. “On three?”
Danica’s hand on my shoulder tightened.
“Si. On three.”
“One … two … three.”
“Uno … due … tre.”
“I love you,” we both said.
Smiles erupted on both of our faces.
I gave her a wink, then stood up. “I’ll start on the pizza dough.”
Danica inhaled deeply and followed me into the kitchen. “You’ve done a heck of a job winning over my ten-year-old.”
I winked at Danica too. “It’s all part of my master plan. Get the ten-year-old to fall in love with me, and then hopefully her mother will follow.”
Her eyes went as big as saucers.
I rubbed her butt affectionately as I stepped behind her, pressing a kiss to her cheek as well. “No pressure, of course.”
But it was impossible not to see the way her eyes lit up with pure excitement when I said how I hoped Sam’s mother would fall in love with me too.
Because that was the truth. Yes, this was new, and I was still dealing with a bit of guilt over caring for someone besides Erin.
But, I also knew that what Danica and I had was good.
It was rare, and it was wonderful. And Erin would want me to be happy.
She said so before she passed. Just like I would want the same for her.
So even though I still had some guilt to work through, I wasn’t going to let it muck up what had the potential to be something truly amazing.
And that was Danica St. Claire and her incredible daughter.