Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Back at the gallery, she obviously favored me over Auggie, even though he was the one paying attention to her. It was bizarre, since creatures, big and small—whether kids or animals—always gravitate to my brother. Seriously, why didn’t this tiny, bespectacled creature glom onto my brother, rather than me?
“Dat’s why purpole is my favorite color,” the kid says to me. God only knows what preceded the statement. She cocks her little head. “What’s your favorite color, Maxy-Milly?”
“Red.”
When it’s clear that’s all I’m going to say on the topic, the kid bats her eyelashes and dishes up her patented line: “Tell me more.”
I resist the urge to chuckle, simply because I don’t want to encourage her. “There’s nothing more to say. I like the color red.”
She nods knowingly. “Your car is red. I saw it at da place with Gigi’s painting.”
Yeah, and not only that, when the kid saw me unlocking my red car outside the gallery, she waved goodbye to me, and then blew effusive kisses at me like I was standing on the deck of the Titanic as it pulled away from the dock, and she was waving a hanky at me and wishing me bon voyage. On top of all that, as I opened my red car’s driver’s side door, the kid shouted at the top of her lungs, “Don’t forget to sit next to me at dinner!”
“My mommy’s hair is red,” the kid says. “So is mine.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“It’s really orange and red mixed togedder, doe. But it’s called redhead.”
“Yep. That definitely tracks with my research.”
“I wish my hair could be purpole. Purpole is my favorite color.”
“Really? You haven’t mentioned that.”
The kid doesn’t get sarcasm, obviously. She huffs out, “I told you dat!”
Despite my best efforts to keep the kid at arm’s length and not encourage her chattiness, I can’t help belly laughing at the indignation on her cute little face. As I’m laughing, I notice Marnie’s face turning toward me in my peripheral vision. She’s sitting on her daughter’s other side, and it’s the first time she’s looked at me during our meal. In fact, every time I’ve peeked at Marnie over her kid’s head, she’s been engrossed in conversation with her father and my mother. Or at least, she’s pretended to be. Who knows with that one. But, apparently, this time, the sound of my laughter has finally attracted Marnie’s attention.
When my eyes meet Marnie’s, she does something wholly unexpected: she beams a huge smile at me—a relaxed, authentic one—and whether I like it or not—spoiler alert: I emphatically do not like it—heat immediately spreads throughout my core in response.
“You know why purpole is my favorite color?” the kid says. “Maxy-Milly.” I wrench my eyes off Marnie’s gorgeous face to look at her miniature doppelganger. When the kid has my full attention again, she repeats, “Do you know why purpole is my favorite color?”
I sigh from the depths of my soul, and Marnie chuckles. “No,” I say. “But I’d bet a full year’s salary you’re gonna tell me, huh?” Again, Marnie laughs. In fact, the entire table does, which means everyone is now keyed into my conversation with the tiny human to my right.
As expected, the kid launches into explaining her love of purple to me. As far as I can tell, it’s a story about some purple dragon in her favorite cartoon. As the kid rambles on, I glance across her carrot-top head at Marnie again. Same as the last time, she flashes me a smile that rattles me to my core, and I return the gesture.
Fucking hell.
What am I doing?
I quickly look away.
The last thing I need to be doing is exchanging goofy smiles with a woman who’s made mind-fuckery an Olympic sport.
“So, dat’s why we were all dressed like purpole spiders!” Ripley concludes. It’s the whiz-bang ending to her lengthy story, apparently, but I have no idea how she got there or what it means.
“Cool,” I say, since she’s clearly waiting for a reply. “Hey, you want to know a secret, kid?”
“Oh, yessss.”
I beckon to her, and she leans in. I look around at the faces staring at us and then stage-whisper, “I sometimes dress like a spider, too. I find it relaxes me after a long day of work.”
The adults at the table burst into laughter, so the kid dissolves into high-pitched giggles along with them—even though I’m quite certain she has no idea what’s funny.
“Oh, Max,” my mother says. “Don’t do that to her. She thinks you’re serious. Ripley, honey, Max is joking. He doesn’t really dress like a spider.”
Ripley looks disappointed. “Oh.” She looks up at me hopefully through thick, smudged lenses. “Do you want to see my spider costume? It’s in my closet.”
“Maybe another time. How can you see anything?” I put out my palm. “Give me your glasses, kid. I’ll show you a whole new world.”