When he looks at her, it’s remorseful. It’s like he’s asking her to rescue him. What can she do? Sammy doesn’t want to be ostracized from the group of girls, so she turns away.
But there’s a moment where she looks up again. They lock eyes.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know that kids can be super complicated. Getting to the bottom of this is going to take some time. For now, she’s safe. And in less than an hour, I’m going to take her back to her dad.
Her hot, rich father...
By the time class is over, I can’t stop going over the pros and cons of becoming friends with Marc inside my head. He’s funny. He’s doing something right with his finances to be living in the town of Sammamish, clearly. At the end of the day, he seems to be a really good father.
So – What are the cons?
After Sammy’s inside my car, I grill her for some inside information. “Does your dad work a lot?” I ask.
What does he do for a living?
Does he make good money?
How big is his… okay. Those are things I’m wondering to myself.
Sammy sits, digging all four fingers into a bag of candy valentines. Within seconds, her mouth is already full. “He’s always doing weird stuff,” she says.
I slow down at the stop sign. Their home isn’t that far away from school, and I selfishly want more time to find out more about Marc. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
She crunches a candy heart with her cute front teeth. “Like, he wears gorilla masks and acts all weird.”
I think I know what she means. “Does he put on funny masks to cheer you up?”
She nods, eyes beaming. “Yeah. I get sad sometimes about mom, but daddy has been really nice lately. He got me Ragamuffin and everything.”
Suddenly, I don’t feel the urge to continue digging. It feels a little too invasive. Still, I can’t stop my brain from quietly wondering about their family as we pull into the long driveway.
Was there a painful and messy divorce? Maybe Marc isn’t as nice as he seems.
I step outside, falling into a state of nostalgia as I peer up at the unused basketball hoop. The house itself is two stories and very cute, like something right out of a movie. Growing up without much money, I always wanted to live in a house like this one. Ours was a two-bedroom, so it wasn’t the worst it could have been. But it wasn’t this glamorous.
It even has a white-picket fence.
We’re far away from the Christmas holidays, but as Marc opens the door to greet us, I envision a massive green tree that reaches the vaulted ceilings, ceiling stereos playing jolly music, and a wall of presents for Sammy. Ragamuffin is sitting on the couch, tongue out, tail wagging.
It’s a brief picture, one that I immediately push out of my head. It’s not real, I tell myself. They put that stuff in movies because it puts a feeling of hope inside of the audience. It’s like a mirage. When you see the thing in person, it’s not the same.
“Daddy!” Sammy yells, snapping me back to reality.
Marc returns the sentiment, swinging out his arms for a giant hug. “Sammy!” he exclaims.
“You made it home early,” she says. “Finally.”
“It’s taken daddy a long time to get used to the traffic here,” he says.
It’s a really cute image, but it’s interrupted by the long-eared dog of my dreams. Ragamuffin runs in from the other room, barking like she’s the queen of this house, and then she rolls onto her back for a warm belly rub. There’s bits of foam stuck in her teeth, and when I follow a trail past Marc, I see a torn up couch. I’m still a little bitter about the dog, but it looks like she’s a misbehaver.
I point. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but your couch...”
Door open, Marc moves to the side. “Hey, Ms. Greenwald,” he says. “A couch can be replaced. A dog… well, I’m not quite there, yet.”
As soon as I’m inside, I realize he’s actually living in the fantasy inside my head. His living room looks like it’s been ripped straight out of a magazine cover. A fireplace unravels into parallel red brick, and a velvet bench rests near a curtained window. Two wooden tables overflow with succulents and books on white shelves.
The man is handsome, as he always was, but now it seems, in hindsight, that he only dressed like this for me. He wears a jean jacket, jeans, and black Nike shoes. His short, dark hair looks freshly combed. Everything about his life is surreal.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks, looking at me expectantly, but I’m lost. My entire body is frozen.
“Yes, please.”
Like a zombie, I lumber into the kitchen to find a long marble island, so clean I could run my tongue across it and feel safe. Every type of pot and pan hangs from the ceiling, and brand new appliances heat up something that smells absolutely scrumptious. This room is almost as big as my bedroom.
To the left of the island is a wide, square dining area, and to the right is a family room. It’s lined with bookshelves of all kinds, and reading through the titles, I realize they’re original classics. Hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands. Most of them are in great condition.
A warmth spreads throughout my body. “Oh, wow,” I whisper.
I sense Marc walking up behind me. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some handmade lasagna in the oven. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
Great Expectations. Wuthering Heights. Tropic of Cancer. A whole collection of Jane Austin. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m in heaven.
I don’t turn around or respond. I’m transfixed by this little Garden of Eden he lives in, but he seems rather bored. Reaching my hand out, I brush a
