Soaring (Magdalene #2)(162)

“Yeah.”

“Go,” he ordered.

Since he’d agreed to allow me to do some decorating, I decided not to take him to task for being high-handed and went to get my jacket.

* * * * *

Late afternoon, after Ash didn’t come out and play Frisbee, I was back at her door.

“Yeah?” she called at my knock.

I stuck my head in. “Hey. You finish your book?”

She clearly had or had given up. She was now on her stomach facing the foot of her bed, still in her PJ’s, and I could see on the small TV on its stand at the end that a movie was paused.

“Yeah,” she replied.

“Any good?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she answered and gave me no more.

I stepped fully into her room, announcing, “Listen, your dad and Cill dragged the fire pit to the deck. They’re out getting firewood and hitting the grocery store. My mission is to start dinner. We’re going to have dinner and do s’mores outside later.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

At least that was something.

I tipped my head to the side and asked her, “Wanna help me make dinner?”

Her eyes drifted to the TV. “Kinda in the middle of this movie.”

I wanted to push.

I didn’t push.

“Okay, kiddo.” I then looked around the room trying to pretend it was nonchalantly before I turned back to her and teased, “Under the mess, your room is cute.”

She shrugged.

I shifted through the clothes and touched a daisy decal on the wall, continuing to tease, “Not sure Imagine Dragons goes with daisies.”

“Yeah, well,” she stated and stopped talking.

“Hey!” I cried, like the idea just struck me. “Bet we can talk your dad into updating this place.” I threw out a hand. “I’m almost done decorating my place and I’d love to help. Throw up some paint. Hit Target and get a new lamp or two. Make it Imagine Dragons worthy.”

She gave me no indication she found this exciting. “Not sure Dad’ll go for that.”

I moved slightly toward her. “He loves you to bits, blossom. And he knows you’re growing up because he leans on you to look after Cillian when he’s not around. I bet he’ll be happy to do it.”

“Seems like a lot of work and money when I don’t really care there’s still daisies.”

I studied her wondering if perhaps her decorations reminded her of her mother or if she worried about the state of her father’s finances and how much of a hit that would be if he did that for her.

I saw no emotion on her face, discomfort, hurt or even hesitancy.

She just didn’t really care.

What girl didn’t care about her room?

“Can I ask your dad anyway?” I requested.

She looked back to the TV then to me, making a mute point that she wanted to get back to her movie, and replied, “Sure. But I’m not really big on that kind of stuff.”

I wanted to know what she was big on, outside of losing herself in books, movies and music. Not that any of that was bad or unusual for a teenage girl.

It was just that I couldn’t use any of it to get in there.

Another idea struck me and I moved to her dresser. I ran a finger along a bottle tipped sideways and not righted, scoring a line through the dust.

Then I looked back to her and grinned. “See you’re not big on makeup either.”

“What’s the point?” she asked.

“I hear you,” I replied. “You’re so pretty, it really isn’t needed.”

Her eyes, having drifted away, shot to me.

Telling.

Sad and telling.

God, I needed an in!

I glanced at the makeup before looking back to her. “You’ve got a lot of it for not being into it.”

“Mom made a big thing of it when I turned fourteen,” she told me. “She and Dad agreed I could wear it when I did, so she took me out and bought me a bunch, had some of her friends over. They all showed me how to use it, made it into a party.”

“That sounds really sweet,” I said softly, and it did. Rhiannon had done that up right.

She shrugged again.

“Do you wear it when you’re at her place?” I asked.

“Not really,” she answered.

She was giving me nothing and I was beginning to feel like I was encroaching on her time and space, and maybe being a bit creepy, so I started to make my way to the door.

“Okay, then, enough chitchat, I gotta get on making dinner.” I stopped with my hand on the door and looked to her. “You get done with your movie, honey, jump in the shower and put on some clothes so you’ll be warm when we have s’mores time. And I hope it finishes early. I cook by myself a lot. I like to have company.”

I was a mom. I had kids. I was a master at subtle mom-guilt manipulation.

“’Kay, will do if it finishes early,” she said.

She wasn’t coming out until dinner. I knew it.

Even oblivious to guilt manipulation.

This was bad.

I beat back a disappointed sigh and instead smiled. “Right, blossom. Enjoy the movie.”

She nodded and looked back to the TV.

But being Ash, I didn’t hear it go back on until I’d shut the door.