The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,429

one and only.

Tucking the book under my arm, I head to the park for my run, and after that I’ll head home to Wren and Enzo, to the least asshole-ish people I know.

Good riddance, crazy guy.

Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Three

Aidy

* * *

“Maybe you had the wrong townhome?” Wren suggests as she stirs a boiling pot of macaroni noodles.

“Nah,” I say, sitting across from Enzo at the kitchen table. He’s rifling through his superhero backpack in desperate search of a permission slip he was supposed to have had signed last week. “I’m ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent sure I had the right place.”

“It’s possible someone was walking by and it fell out of their bag,” Wren says. The timer from the microwave dings, and she places a metal colander in the sink. Draining the pot of pasta, she turns to Enzo. “Find it yet, buddy?”

“No, Mom. But I know it was in here. Mrs. Caldecott says we have to have it turned in by tomorrow or we can’t go to the Museum of Natural History.” My nephew frowns, shaking his head, and I’m reminded that bad days are all relative.

I spent the rest of the afternoon ticked off about the bearded giant with the piercing stare and the broad shoulders. Not even a three-mile jog could snap me out of it. I let him ruin my afternoon, and for what? A year from now, I doubt I’ll even remember what he looked like.

No.

Wait.

That’s not true.

I can’t forget a man who looks like that.

He’s brooding gorgeousness like I’ve never seen, and truth be told, I haven’t been able to get his face out of my mind all day.

“Surely she could’ve sent home another. It’s the last week of school for crying out loud. You’d think she could cut the kid some slack,” Wren says, clucking her tongue. “I’ve just about had it with Mrs. Caldecott. She’s always trying to teach these kids life lessons, but that’s what parents are for, you know? Teach them math and English and science and leave the rest to us.”

“I disagree, sister dear. I’m of the ‘it takes a village’ camp,” I call out, knowing I can never change my control freak sister’s ways. She’s already planning to infiltrate the PTA at Enzo’s school next year because she’s dissatisfied with their homework policy. Yes. My sister is that mom, but she always means well. “Buddy, let me help you.”

Enzo hands me his backpack, which has an unnecessary abundance of zippers and compartments. I reach down to the bottom, which feels like a bottomless black hole, and retrieve a crumpled piece of paper.

“I’ll just write one by hand,” Wren says, returning the macaroni to the stove and dumping in the powdered orange cheese. “If it’s not good enough, I’ll march into Principal Watkins’ office and–”

“Hold on there, Mama Bear.” I unfold the crumpled sheet, which Mrs. Caldecott clearly printed on goldenrod paper to make it easier to find amongst the piles of paper she sends home with the kids on a daily basis. “Found it.”

Enzo does a happy little jump in his seat and rips it out of my hand before flying across the kitchen to hand it to Wren.

“Calm down, buddy.” Wren runs her fingers through his hair, grinning, and steps away from the stove to retrieve a pen from the junk drawer. The first one doesn’t work. Neither does the second. Muttering under her breath, she finally pulls out a black Sharpie and signs the slip. “Put this in the front pocket of your bag. From now on, I want all of the really important papers to go in the very front, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom.” Enzo does exactly as he’s told. He’s a good kid, equal parts nerd and sports enthusiast. He’s busy and active, and sometimes forgetful, but he’s our Enzo, and we wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Shit,” Wren whispers from the kitchen. I look over to see her scraping stuck-on macaroni noodles off the bottom of the pan.

“What’d you do?” I ask.

“I put the pot back on the stove, but I didn’t shut off the burner.” She lifts her wooden spoon, showing me Exhibit A: a spoonful of black-as-night macaroni stuck together in one hard clump. The kitchen smells like burnt flour. “At least I didn’t waste any milk or butter on this mess.”

“So what’s for dinner now, huh, Mom?” I tease.

“Pizza!” Enzo pipes up, clearly not upset in the slightest that his boxed macaroni dinner met an untimely demise. “Can we