14. Crumbs
CRUMBS
“You’re sure you don’t mind watching her?” Owen asks for the hundredth time as he wedges his truck into a parallel parking spot that doesn’t look nearly big enough to fit the hunk of metal.
“I’m starting to think I should be asking you that. If you don’t want—”
“No, Fin. It’s not that,” he insists with a sigh.
I know his hesitation has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the out-of-nowhere summons from Delilah, but that doesn’t mean I won’t give him shit for it, if only to ease some of this tension.
“We were in the middle of something important, and I feel like I’m taking advantage.”
I roll my eyes and slip down from the truck.
I’ve gotten more graceful with my dismounts, but my knees still ache when I hit the ground.
Owen’s at my side in a heartbeat, a hand closing around my arm to stop me before I can take off toward where Grace and Annabelle are playing tag with a few other kids.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” I tell him. Although there’s little I wouldn’t have offered him when he emerged from the phone call, his brow furrowed with worry. “I won’t be offended if you’d rather ask someone else. Someone she’s known longer. I promise, it’s not a big deal.”
“You watch Annabelle for me all the time,” he reminds me, his hand sliding to the back of my neck in that way that melts every ounce of tension from my body and quiets my thoughts. “I just don’t know how long I’ll be. Delilah wasn’t exactly forthcoming on the phone.”
“It takes as long as it takes. Whatever she needs to talk to you about is obviously important if she wants to do it in person, without Annabelle there. Take all the time you need. Worst-case scenario, you’re barely an hour away.”
He lets out a long breath. “Call me, and I’ll come running.”
Same, Owen. Same.
Honestly, I’m looking forward to this impromptu babysitting gig.
I spent the short drive over planning out a full evening of fun for my number one girl.
We’ll hang out at the playground a little longer, then head home for dinner in front of a movie, followed by fancy popcorn—aka kettle corn with M&Ms and caramel syrup.
It will absolutely involve more sugar than a four-year-old should have that close to bedtime, but I’ll be the only one around to witness the aftermath, so I figure it can be our little secret.
It means a lot that Owen trusts me with his pseudo-daughter.
I know it’s not easy for him to loosen his grip.
I don’t blame him. If she were my niece, and my sister was going through something, the last thing I’d want is the added stress of leaving her in a stranger’s care. But I’m not a stranger now, am I?
His shoulders ease a fraction. “I owe you.”
I shake my head—if anyone owes anything here, it’s me—but he cuts me off with one last squeeze at the base of my neck before his hand drops away. “I owe you the rest of our conversation, too. I won’t forget. I just need to handle whatever this is first. Alright?”
“Alright,” I echo.
I trust he means it. I just hope he doesn’t use this pause to talk himself out of whatever he was about to say.
Apparently appeased for now, he turns, and we set off across the grass. Annabelle clocks us before Grace even notices our arrival. She’s not happy to see us, judging by the way she stomps her little foot and loudly protests she’s not ready to leave the park yet.
“No need to worry, Princess.” Owen grabs her, tackling her to the ground and tickling until her sullen pout dissolves into full-body giggles. “I was dropping Finley off to play, too.”
He releases her, and she scrambles back to her feet, all evidence of her earlier grumpiness gone. “How would you feel about him babysitting tonight?”
“Really!?” she gasps, clapping her hands.
“Really, really,” he confirms.
She pumps a fist in the air before abandoning the conversation entirely to rejoin the game of tag unfolding around us. Grace seems to have recruited half the town at this point, judging by the number of kids tearing across the grass in fits of laughter.
“I guess that’s a yes?” I laugh.
“I guess so.” He pats his pockets, double-checking he has everything he needs, fingers lingering on his wallet. “You got your key?”
“Yes. Stop stalling. Everything will be fine.”
He rolls his eyes but finally turns back toward the road, flicking a half-hearted wave over his shoulder. As has become customary, I watch his ass the entire way, right up until it disappears into the truck and he pulls away.
Whoever said slides and swings were just for children is seriously mistaken. I spend the afternoon teaching Annabelle how to kick her feet to power the swing herself, resisting the urge to show her how to leap off mid-flight. I’ll save that trick for when she’s older.
I shove the concern I might not be around when she’s older away as quickly as it comes. I’m having too good a time to ruin it by feeling sorry for myself. Our conversation might have been cut off earlier, but I refuse to feel anything other than optimistic about where it was headed.
As frustrating as it is that Owen got pulled away, tonight is exactly the opportunity I need to prove I want a permanent place in this little family. That means showing him I can be not only exactly what he needs, but what she needs, too. It’s not exactly a hardship.
By the time we make it back to the apartment, the fall sun is dipping low in the sky. I set Annabelle up with a craft at the kitchen table, and get to work on dinner.
Cooking isn’t my strong suit, but Owen’s taught me the basics over the past few weeks.
So I aim higher than microwaving chicken nuggets, pulling leftover veggies and ground beef from the fridge, and lining them up on the counter.
I find a recipe on Instagram for a hidden-veggie pasta, which looks simple enough, and before long, the sauce is simmering on the stove, rich and fragrant, waiting for the spaghetti to cook through.
It’ll only take a few more minutes. Annabelle is still happily distracted with her paints, so I take the opportunity to slip away and straighten her room.
The level of crumb distribution that one tiny girl can achieve should be studied by scientists.
I make quick work of the toys scattered across the floor, then grab the vacuum, running it back and forth over the carpet until there’s not a speck of dust left.
I step back to admire my handiwork, switching off the sensory assault of the vacuum, when a piercing shriek erupts from down the hall. The heart-wrenching sob that follows a second later sends my stomach plummeting and my feet flying back toward the kitchen.
Annabelle stands in front of the stove, on the opposite side of the room from where I left her, clutching her hand to her chest. Red stains her shirt beneath her palm, the metal knife I left on the counter now glinting from the floor at her feet.
Shit.
“Annabelle, what happened?” I try to keep my voice low and steady, but it’s nearly impossible.
When I was younger, I broke a glass. It shattered into a million pieces, covering every inch of the kitchen floor.
My mother’s frantic scolding hurt far worse than the small cut I got from one of the shards.
“I hel—” she wails, the word breaking apart. “I try to—” She’s shaking so hard the rest gets lost in the sobs wracking her little body. “I—I—I…”
“Shhh… It’s okay.”
I pull her into my arms, carefully shifting her hand so I can see the damage without drawing attention to it. The cut is deep. Way worse than the small nick I’d been hoping for. It runs the length of her palm and is oozing blood at an alarming rate.
Panic rises rapidly in my chest. I force in a deep breath, reminding myself I’m, unfortunately, the adult here. Losing my shit could have serious consequences for my little charge.
I take another grounding breath and move, grabbing a clean hand towel from the drawer and wrapping it as tightly as I can around the wound. She hisses when I apply pressure, but I hum softly and stroke her hair, hoping it soothes more than it hurts.
“We need to get to the doctor and have this looked at.” I’m not sure if the instruction was meant for her benefit or mine, but the word doctor only makes Annabelle sob harder. Her whole tiny body shakes, tears streaming down her face.
I turn off the stove and scoop her up despite both our trembling, tucking her legs around my waist. My back protests under her weight as I carry her down the stairs and out into the street.
I don’t have a car, but the doctor’s office isn’t far—just down the other end of Main Street.
I don’t even know if it’ll be open this late, especially on a Sunday, but it’s not like I have another option.
If it’s closed, I’ll have to… I dismiss the negative thought and focus on moving faster.
There’s a car in the parking lot when we arrive a few minutes later, and I let out a breath of relief, only to find the door locked when I grab the handle. Fuck. I swallow my mounting anxiety and pound my fist against the glass, praying to anyone listening that someone will answer.
It feels like an hour, but it’s probably less than a minute before a light flickers on down the hall.
After a few more frantic knocks, a blonde man in navy scrubs appears.
I recognize him from the cafe—medium coffee with almond milk, two sugars, and a blueberry muffin every morning at seven twenty-three.
I could set my clock by him, but I couldn’t tell you his name.
He pulls the door open, looking startled and more rumpled than usual. I probably scared the hell out of him, beating on the glass like that.
Before he can ask anything, Dr. Abraham’s voice carries down the hall. “Finley? Is everything okay, lad?” It’s smooth and kind, the only remaining evidence of his southern twang lingering in his slow cadence.
The adrenaline that got me here drains out all at once, leaving me shaky.
For the first time since leaving the apartment, I'm dangerously close to passing out—the man in scrubs notices, steadying me as Dr. Abraham takes Annabelle from my arms. She realizes where she is the second her face is no longer buried in my neck, and lets out another soul-shattering whimper.
“It’s okay, dear. I’ll make everything better,” he soothes.
The look on Annabelle’s face says she isn’t convinced. I remind myself it’s probably a normal reaction for a kid at a doctor’s office. When I was her age, every visit meant shots. I wish today didn’t have something much worse in store.
“I must have left a kitchen knife on the counter,” I pant. “Only gone a minute. Blood everywhere. Straight here.”
The doctor somehow follows my stuttered explanation, nodding reassuringly. “She’ll be fine, Finley. You got her to the right place.”
He gives a pointed look to the man over my shoulder, then turns and heads down the hall toward what I assume is an exam room. I step forward to follow, but a firm hand stops me.
“Nope. You’re coming this way with me. You’re about two seconds from passing out, and the doctor doesn’t need another patient. Let Abe take care of Annabelle while I take care of you.”
I let him guide me to one of the waiting room chairs and sink down, dropping my forehead into my palms. He reappears a moment later with a bottle of water and a candy bar.
“Start with this.” He cracks the cap and presses the bottle into my hand. “Once the room stops spinning, a little sugar will set you right.” He places the Twix on the side table and perches on an armchair across from me. “I’m Casey. You must be the other new guy in town.”
I don’t bother with a response more advanced than a half nod. It’s not that I’m trying to be rude, but now that the immediate panic has faded, something worse emerges in its place. Dread.
I was so close. So close to getting what I wanted, to convincing Owen to give us a chance.
And just like that, it’s gone. Burned up in the span of two careless minutes.
My chest aches as the reality sinks in. My distraction might have cost me everything.
Any future in this town. Any future with him. With Annabelle.
I twist my fingers together in my lap, shifting restlessly in my seat.
“I need to call Owen.” I pat the empty pocket of my jeans, already knowing my phone is still sitting on the kitchen island, playing music to an empty apartment. “Is there a phone I can borrow? Shit, I don’t even know his number.” Who memorizes those anymore?
“It’s okay, it’s in her file. I’ll need to get his consent for treatment anyway,” Casey says, stepping behind the small reception desk and typing quickly. I expect him to come back with the number, but instead, he lifts the phone and murmurs something too low for me to hear.
My stomach churns. I can only imagine how Owen’s going to react. He’s probably already cursing himself for leaving her with me. I’m not sure I’ll even be able to meet his eyes when he gets here, let alone figure out how to apologize for screwing up this badly.
Casey disappears down the hall after hanging up, checking in on the doctor and Annabelle. I stare at the exit, briefly considering how terrible it would be if I left.
It’s tempting as hell. But I don’t move. I got myself into this mess. The least I can do is stay and face whatever comes next. So I sit there, the weight of it all pressing down on me, counting the minutes until Owen arrives.