Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,10
bedtime shuffle and in the middle of the conversation one of the girls ended up in tears. All he’d said was that we should keep an eye out.
Now we’re standing on the sidewalk, surveying the damage, when he turns to me and says, “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
Chapter Six
Greg arrived home with a sleeping child slung across both arms and a takeout bag precariously teetering on top. After he’d put Blair to bed, he showered while I helped Naomi into a bath.
Greg wanders in and rests against the doorframe. One look at him, and I fall apart. He takes me in his arms, and then as my tears evolve into full sobs, he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the bathroom. Back against the wall, I can see the concern written across his face. The unspoken question. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulls me close, rubbing my back in slow circles. “It’s okay,” he says. “No one died.”
Naomi bursts around the corner, dripping water, half of the contents of the tub pooling at her feet. “I said I need a towel.”
Greg takes her back into the bathroom. Leaning half out the door, he tells me to put on a movie, and then, “Did you ask for the footage?”
“Not yet,” I say, thinking the overbearing seller is the last person I want to deal with right now. “I’m going to text Dana. She’ll get it.”
The three of us settle on the couch, where no one watches the movie and only Naomi talks. She recounts in painful detail the course of her game, pausing only to take a breath before breaking into an animated speech about the fall festival this evening. I shoot Greg a look over her head. It’s apparent it has slipped his mind. Given everything that’s happened, I had almost forgotten too. “I don’t think your mother’s feeling well,” he tells her, and I watch her little face fall.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I’m very good at mouth to mouth.”
Naomi scrunches up her nose. “Gross,” she says, looking from her father to me and back. “Does that mean we can still go?”
“If your mom feels up to it.”
“I already missed the game…and lunch…I can’t miss this, too.”
“Exactly,” Naomi says indignantly.
My eyes are on Greg. “God, this morning went so terribly downhill.”
His brow raises. “At least no one set the house on fire.”
“There is that.”
Naomi folds her arms across her chest and pouts. “So we’re going?”
“Of course, we’re going.” I lean over and tickle her belly. Then I turn to Greg. “Could you help me with something in the kitchen?”
“I just got comfortable.”
“The trash…” I say, widening my eyes for effect. “You forgot again.”
He taps his watch before turning his attention back to the TV. “It’ll still be there in half an hour,” he says, making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.
Too exhausted to press the issue, I lay my head back and close my eyes. When I open them again, more than an hour has passed. With Naomi invested in the TV, I flick Greg on the forearm and motion toward the kitchen. Reluctantly, he stands and follows me.
“I need to talk to you.”
“You know I hate it when you say that. Just spit it out.”
“I have a bad feeling—”
“Mom!” Naomi shouts as though we haven’t heard Blair erupt with an ear-piercing scream.
I bolt for her room, nerves raw, only to find that Miss Moo, her stuffed cow, was left behind in the transfer from the car to her bed. It is the end of the world.
“You’re six years old,” I say, patting her back. “You don’t have to have Miss Moo all the time anymore.”
Greg stands in the doorway, shaking his head. Sometimes I think I made a mistake not nipping Miss Moo in the bud early on. Her obsession is a bit much, something on a good day I find charming. Today has not been one of those. The crying continues.
As Blair and I rescue Miss Moo from the backseat of Greg’s car, a private conversation with my husband has never felt more like a pipe dream.
When we return to the kitchen, Greg is elbow deep in a bag of potato chips. “Did you hear back from Dana?”
“No, not yet.”
“So what are their plans…next door—the damage—” He stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. “Are they moving out?”
I smile at his hopefulness. Greg wouldn’t wish ill on anyone. He’s as amenable and likable