The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(40)

Of course he can’t leave me alone. Not even in my dreams.

And if I’m truly, deeply, frighteningly honest with myself, I don’t want him to. Even if the fortune teller just outside my dream’s big top would probably tell me she sees heartbreak in my future.





Thirty minutes later, I’m reaching back to wipe powdered sugar from Jo’s nose as we wait in the drop-off line. Even with a donut-messy face, she still looks cuter than I do with her bright eyes and freckles. I look like I last saw good sleep half a decade ago, which is about right. I blow my bangs out of my eyes, wondering if I should keep growing them out or cut them again.

Does Pat like bangs on me?

Who cares!

But … does he?

Clearly, I care. Even if I shouldn’t. Now that I know Pat and his dad are investing in the town, I feel paranoid, like any moment, one of them is going to pop out from behind a cluster of bushes.

That may or may not be the reason I’m wearing eyeliner today.

“Have a great day, bug,” I say as we near the drop-off area.

“I’m not a bug!”

The sound of her giggle brightens my mood instantly and helps the worry lift. “Have a great day, cupcake.”

“I’m not a cupcake!”

We inch forward until we’re finally at the drop-off spot, and I turn, kissing my hand and pressing it quickly to her knee as a volunteer mom opens the door.

I roll down my window, calling, “Love you, Jojo!”

“Be good!” Jo responds, making me chuckle.

I prepare to move the car into drive, but the door stays open. I almost jump when a head pops into the open passenger-side window.

It’s Tabitha Waters-Graves, easily my least favorite of the PTO Mafia. Tabitha is the PTO Mafia queen. Or, I guess, the don. And, at least partly because of my bad history with her cousin, Billy Jr., Tabitha has made messing with me her favorite sport. She is living proof that mean girls never go out of style and aren’t just relegated to movies or wearing pink on Wednesdays. It feels almost like coming full circle, being harassed by a Waters woman. But Tabitha’s meanness makes Spring seem like my high school BFF.

“Hello, Linda,” Tabitha says. Her unnaturally white smile reminds me of Jo’s Jaws coloring book. I think I’d prefer to swim with sharks than converse with Tabitha.

“It’s Lindy.”

“Have you signed up to help with Galaxy Day? I don’t think I saw your name on the volunteer list.”

“I have to work.” I also don’t know what Galaxy Day is, but I’m not going to mention that and add fuel to her dumpster fire.

The PTO Mafia doesn’t seem to understand that even if I don’t go to an actual office or have a specific boss, my writing is real work. It takes a lot more time than one might think to research posts like which items at the Dollar Tree actually save you money. I’m constantly getting passive aggressive emails from Tabitha or Melinda, the room mother and Tabby’s BFF, disappointed I didn’t show up for Muffin Day or Crazy Sock Day or Pretend It’s Friday on a Wednesday Day. I swear, three to four times a month, there is another event requiring a sign-up and optional parent present.

Tabitha clucks her tongue, and I become mesmerized by her eyelash extensions. They almost touch her eyebrows. Isn’t that uncomfortable? They have to be heavy. I wonder if her eyelids ever get sore. I’m hit with sudden inspiration to pen an article on the top dangers of eyelash extensions.

“Information has been coming home for weeks about Galaxy Day. It’s a big event. But I know some parents—or caretakers—are too busy with their own lives.”

I’ve got to give it to Tabitha—she’s no dummy. That dart strikes exactly where she means it to, and I take a moment to breathe and count the No Parking signs along the fence ahead of me. I won’t snap and give her the satisfaction of seeing me upset.

Maybe on paper, I’m Jo’s legal guardian, her conservator. But that’s just the official title, and anyway, it’s my business. I’ve done the best I can by Jo, and I happen to think it’s pretty darn good—broken toilets aside. We’re happy. I love her to pieces, and she knows it.

“I can’t help out with every activity, Tabby.” She bristles at the nickname, which gives me a stupidly large sense of pleasure. Cars start passing me on the left, and I’m getting dirty looks. Like I have any choice in holding up the line. I can’t move until Tabby closes the back door, which she doesn’t seem to have any interest in doing.

“You mean any activity. I believe you are the only parent—sorry, caretaker—who hasn’t volunteered in at least some capacity at the school. We make time for what’s important, Linda.”

“Did you get that line out of a fortune cookie?”

She glares. Tabby’s husband is the sole doctor at Sheet Cake’s family practice. Which means Tabitha has choices: work, not work, volunteer, get expensive eyelash extensions, harass other, lesser moms—excuse me, caretakers—in the carpool line.

I hope her extensions make all her natural lashes fall out. That makes me feel mean. Fine—I wish half of her natural lashes fall out.

Tabitha gives me a faux pitying look I’d like to remove from her face with the plastic ice scraper in my glove compartment. Considering it rarely freezes in Sheet Cake, it would be a great use for the thing.