Chapter 4
Desmond
On the way back from the supermarket, Parker munches happily on a bag of chips I was coerced into buying.
Even after having custody of him for over half a year, I’m still floored at the sheer amount of food the kid can put away.
I don’t remember eating that much as a pre-teen.
Certainly not the caloric intake Parker manages to ingest. My carefully planned budget was blown to smithereens after a single trip to the supermarket.
In fact, my budget has been rendered completely obsolete, because apparently having children is the most expensive thing one can do in this country.
When the lawyer had told me I was named beneficiary of Victoria and Paul’s estate, I’d assumed they must have had investments or savings for Parker set aside.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. Nobody expects to die in their thirties, and clearly my sister and her husband were among that demographic. They thought they’d have time .
Now, I constantly think about the money I got from selling their house.
The money from their life insurance policies.
All of it tucked away in a high-interest savings account for Parker to have when he turns eighteen.
The thought of spending that money—even on things like rent or food—makes me lightheaded with unease. It’s not mine .
No. I’ll raise Parker with my own paychecks and add to the savings as much as possible, even if it’s nothing more than fifty dollars a month. We’ll be fine. I can do this , I mentally reassure my sister, but she only laughs.
“What time do you have to leave?” Parker asks, and I glance at the rearview mirror just in time to see chip crumbles fall onto his shirt. I need to vacuum the car.
“Not until two.” I check the dashboard clock to make sure time is still moving at the same pace. “Puck drop is at four thirty.”
He doesn’t answer, already having lost interest. I’d hoped he’d want to come to the game tonight, since it’s on home ice, but the offer had been met with a stony rejection and a declaration of how stupid hockey was.
When I’d told Nico not to bother setting aside any special tickets for me, he’d only chuckled and said we’ll keep a seat for him, just in case he changes his mind.
“Did you want to—” I break off, distracted by a figure walking down the footpath. I’d recognize that beautiful red hair and wide back anywhere. Parker sits forward in his seat, stretching the seat belt as he tries to see what interrupted me. I glance at him. “Hey, Parks, sit back.”
“Ugh.” He groans, rolling his eyes and flopping back. “What are you looking at? Who is that?”
Glancing in the mirrors and verifying nobody is driving up behind us, I slow the car and roll down the passenger window as we come up on Jack McIntire. He’s got his arms wrapped around a cloth bag, stuffed full enough that it looks heavy and cumbersome.
“Who is that?” Parker hisses again.
“One of my hockey players,” I tell him, before raising my voice to call through the open window. “Hey, Jacko.”
Jack flinches visibly at his name, and immediately flushes a color that I’ve only ever seen on fruit before.
Now that I’ve got his attention, I pull up to the curb and put the car in park.
Hefting his bag so he’s got a better hold of it, Jack steps closer and bends down a bit to see through the open window.
“Hi,” he says, voice small. It sounds like he’s asking a question, not offering a greeting.
“What are you doing?” Parker asks with the bluntness of an uncouth kid. He’s leaning forward in his seat again, but since the car is parked, I don’t bother correcting him.
“Oh,” Jack says, looking surprised at being addressed by a curious nine-year-old. “Laundry.”
“Washing? Don’t they have machines at the school?” I peer at him, once more noticing how heavy that bag probably is. Where the hell is he walking to?
“Yeah, but there is a laundromat next to the bowling alley.” He nods to the side, indicating the direction he was walking. “And it’s twenty-five cents cheaper than the one at the school.”
I stare at him. The bowling alley is six and a half kilometers away from campus, at least. His blush deepens, and I cool it on the staring, looking up in the rearview to check traffic.
“We have a washing machine,” Parker chimes in. I turn and stare at him instead. He jokes, “And it doesn’t cost any cents.”
It costs me some cents, I think, but now really isn’t the time to explain how water and electricity and rent bills work. I smile at Jack, noticing as I do how striking his hair color is in direct sunlight.
“You can use our machine if you want,” I offer. “No cents needed—you heard it here first.”
Parker laughs. “Yeah, you can use ours.”
Jack’s eyes bounce between us. He looks so embarrassed I almost feel bad for offering. Almost. Mostly, I feel bad that he is apparently so strapped for cash that he has to walk a thirteen-kilometer round trip to save twenty-five cents on washing.
“Hop in, Jacko,” I prompt, unlocking the door.
“Oh. I don’t—well, maybe. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Adjusting his washing bag to free up a hand, he pops open the passenger door.
Parker leans forward, practically crawling over the center console as he tries to get a good look at Jack.
I raise my eyebrows at him, widening my eyes in a silent request to sit the fuck back .
He rolls his eyes and slumps backward with a huff.
“Jacko, this is Parks.” I hook a thumb toward the back, waiting for Jack’s seat belt to click into place before getting us back onto the road. His washing bag is squished between his legs, resting on the floorboards.
“He’s not my dad, though. Desmond is my uncle,” Parker adds quickly, a somewhat mean tone to his voice. “My parents are dead.”
“Parker! Unnecessary, bud, come on,” I scold him, insides recoiling at the harsh reminder. I hate when he does that.
“Well, it’s true. You’re not my dad,” he replies, crossing his arms and meeting my eyes defiantly in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, well…there are better ways to go about it.” A quick gl ance over at Jack confirms what I’d already suspected—embarrassment painted across his skin, nearly wiping out the freckles that cascade over his face and down his neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, before clearing his throat and adding in a small voice, “My parents are dead, too.”
This manages to snag Parker’s attention so thoroughly that he forgets to glare at me. For the rest of the quick drive home, every glance in the mirror shows his eyes locked firmly on Jack, cheek dimpled as though he’s chewing on it.
When we all climb out of the vehicle, awkwardness radiates off of Jack like heat.
He’s clutching his washing bag so tightly, one might think he was worried I was going to try and take it from him.
Parker walks so closely to me that he steps on my heels twice, either picking up on Jack’s nerves or adding some of his own to the mix.
When we get inside, Parker stays glued to my hip and Jack hovers barely a foot inside the door, gazing around the room.
“Wow,” he says, “this is really nice.”
I look too, wondering if something has changed since this morning.
The furniture is all a haphazard mishmash of things we brought from Victoria and Paul’s house, and the rest bought on sale at IKEA.
Nothing matches. There is also a thin layer of mess coating the room—a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, shoes in the hallway leading to the bedrooms instead of by the door; three half-empty, used water glasses on the coffee table.
“Thanks. It’s not so bad,” I agree, reminding myself that he lives in a dorm and anything more than one room probably seems like a castle. “Washing machine and dryer are in the laundry, through the kitchen. Help yourself. ”
As Jack walks slowly over toward the machines, I reach for the door. Parker fists a hand into my shirt.
“Are you leaving?” he asks.
“Just getting the shopping.” He chews on his lip, glancing at Jack’s back as he fiddles with the washer. I can’t help but laugh. “Parks, buddy, it was your idea to let him come over.”
“Well, yeah, but…but I’m coming with you to get the groceries. You shouldn’t leave me alone with a stranger. I’m nine .”
“Oh, now we’re nine,” I note, leading the way back down the stairs with Parker on my heels. “Funny how we’re no longer ten when it suits us.”
“Whatever,” he says, but the word is playful instead of angry.
Having learned that breakable things are not safe with him, I hand him the bags with no glass jars inside and take the rest. He practically sprints back up the stairs, and his eyes immediately look for Jack as he kicks off his shoes.
I want to laugh again, but hold it back.
He’s looking at Jack like he’s an exotic animal that strolled into the apartment, and he’s not sure whether to be excited or afraid.
“You right, Jacko?” I ask, dumping my shopping bags on the counter and popping open the fridge door.
“Yes. Fine. Thank you. Thanks again for letting me do this. I’m sorry to be a hassle.”
“You’re welcome,” Parker replies, the apparent master of the household. He’s standing in the middle ground between the kitchen and the living room, not helping me put away the shopping but at least not running and hiding in his bedroom right away.
“Do you need help?” Jack asks me .
“Nope. I’ve got it.” I glance back at him, noting the paperback clutched in his hands. “What’re you reading?”
“Oh.” He stares down at the book and blushes. “Vampire book.”
He gives an awkward little chuckle, and shrugs his shoulders. I smile at him.
“You read?” Parker asks, astounded. “That’s cool. I like to read, too. So does Desmond, but he needs glasses to see words. Also, he only reads old-people stuff.”
“What does that even mean, Parks?”
“Like…books written by dead people,” he clarifies.