Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Her chair scrapes against the floor, and she practically flings herself out of the chair, tripping over her feet to get to me. She buries her face against my stomach, leaving wet marks on the fabric, probably a combination of tears and snot. I take her hand and guide her away from the table. My neck is hot and I’m practically shaking, I’m so angry.
This whole meal feels like a lot of posturing. Unnecessary posturing. The kind that makes me want to smack this woman upside the head. I’m not the enemy. I’m just a woman trying to navigate a relationship with a man who has a very complicated past, and a control freak, overbearing mother-in-law.
We cross the restaurant, Peyton sniffling and using the back of her hand to wipe her nose. As soon as we’re inside the restroom, I dig around in my purse and find a tissue and crouch down in front of her. “Here, sweetie, blow your nose.”
“I wanted to sit next to you.”
I push her hair back from her face and tamp down my anger. This isn’t Peyton’s fault, and I want to make sure she understands that. “Your granny doesn’t get to see you often, and I get to see you all the time, though.”
“But she won’t even let me get what I want. And Dad already said I could have whatever I wanted.”
Half of me wants to tell her we’ll have a do-over, but I don’t want to do the same thing Karen is by undermining Gavin, and I’m not Peyton’s parent. I’m the girlfriend, and Peyton’s former nanny, which puts me in a difficult position. My instinct is to protect and try to gently discipline. If I were still the nanny, I would sit Karen and Gavin down and have a discussion about reasonable expectations, consistency, and supporting each other. But I can’t, because I’m now directly involved in so many ways.
And despite the friction between me and Karen, I want her to like me. Because no matter what, she’s always going to be connected to Peyton, and whether I like it or not, she’s been a huge part of her life.
And I feel like she sees me as a threat.
“I know that, but maybe Granny didn’t. She just wants to make sure you eat good things to go with the not-so-nutritious stuff. Remember when you wanted the extra scoop of ice cream because you couldn’t decide, and your dad said you had to pick one and then you couldn’t even finish that?”
“But this is different. It’s just chocolate milk and french fries.” Her mouth screws up in a scowl.
Agreeing with her isn’t going to help the situation. “I know, honey, but this is Granny’s way of telling you she loves you.”
“I wish she would tell me with words and hugs.”
I wrap my arms around her and she melts right into me. I have her use the bathroom and wash her hands before we return to the table. The server brings out our meals, setting Peyton’s chicken fingers and carrots and celery in front of her. She reaches across the table for the ketchup and squirts a generous amount on her plate.
“You need to start with the vegetables, Peyton,” Karen tells her.
I move my plate of chicken fingers aside—in hindsight I shouldn’t have ordered the fries—and dig into my salad. Peyton follows my lead and dunks her carrots into the ranch dip.
When she’s finally able to move on to her chicken fingers, Karen stops her from putting more ketchup on her plate when she runs out after the first chicken finger. “Ketchup is all sugar. You don’t need any more.”
“But I need something to dip my chicken fingers in,” Peyton says, eyes darting to her dad and me and then back to her plate.
Because I’ve been stewing this entire time, I don’t even give Gavin the chance to jump in before I give my own two cents. “She’s nine; ketchup might as well be its own food group. I know it was one for me when I was her age, and Gavin still uses half a bottle every time we have grilled cheese sandwiches. It doesn’t mean he’s a bad parent, and if my parents were still alive, I’m pretty sure one of their regrets in life would not be letting me use ketchup liberally when I was Peyton’s age. Loving ketchup is not a crime.” I realize I’m on a rant, and that my behavior is only going to cause more tension, not less, but I’m annoyed.
The table falls into an uncomfortable silence for a few long seconds, at least until Gavin clears his throat. “I’m pretty sure Peyton got her love of ketchup from me, and I got mine from my dad.” He points to his plate and then nods over at his dad’s plate: both have a puddle of ketchup that takes up nearly a quarter of the plate.