More Than I Could (31)

“Dad is that way too.” She tilts her head toward me. “But I guess you’ll know that soon enough.”

I watch her carefully, pausing before I respond. The more time passes in silence—with me looking straight at her—the stronger my point. Eventually, she sighs and turns her attention to the sleeve of her shirt.

“So you aren’t a morning person?” Megan asks her.

“Me? No,” Kennedy says. “Having to get out of bed in the morning ruins my day every day.”

“Good,” Megan says.

Kennedy eyes her curiously. “Good?”

“No, it’s not good,” I say. “I make Mom wear a shield to wake her up just in case she throws things.”

It’s a joke, mostly. Kennedy isn’t easy to deal with before school. But as soon as I admit it, I worry that will throw Megan for a loop.

She surprises me.

“You better buy Kennedy a shield, too, because I don’t function before the sun is up,” Megan says. “And the only thing worse than actually getting up is dealing with someone happy about it.”

Kennedy fights a smile. I do too.

“I don’t want to be anywhere early,” Megan says, reclining in her seat and speaking directly to Kennedy. “I don’t need to discuss the weather. And please don’t tell me you’re a big breakfast person because, if you are, we’ll need to figure out a grab-and-go thing. I can’t eat before ten.”

Kennedy sits up, dropping her sleeve to her side. “Okay, same. Gram gets upset that I hate breakfast. So she sends a cereal bar with me every morning, and I give it away in first period. If I eat that early, I want to puke.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” I say.

“Actually, that’s not true.” Megan grins, her blue eyes sparkling. “Recent studies have shown that lunch might be the most important meal of the day.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“No, Daddy, it’s true,” Kennedy says. “Think about it. It makes sense. If you eat a little lunch, aren’t you ready to eat anything you can get your hands on by the time you get home? But if you eat a bigger lunch, you’re not dying. Right?”

What the hell is going on here?

I suppress my smile—because God knows that an indication that I’m happy with how this is going might set off my child—and settle back in my seat.

“You know,” Kennedy says slyly. “Maybe I should warn Megan about what a grump you can be when you get home from work.”

“Excuse me?” I say over their laughter. “I work hard for ten, twelve hours a day and then come home to you fighting with Neve or crying over algebra or—”

“Whoa, let me cut in here,” Megan says, holding up a hand. “Crying over algebra is excused. Come on, Chase. Have a heart.”

“Yeah, Dad. Come on. Have a heart.”

I wonder if Megan hates algebra and mornings or if she’s rolling with the punches to win over Kennedy. Because by the looks of things, they’re forming a team. And for whatever reason—reasons that I won’t give too much thought—it’s cute.

“Algebra never killed anyone.” I smile. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Megan winces. “Well, except Hippasus.”

“Hippa-who?” I ask.

“Hippasus. He was an early follower of Pythagoras. Legend says that he was executed for demonstrating the existence of irrational numbers.”

“I knew it.” Kennedy throws her arms in the air. “I knew math was dangerous. I’ve felt it in my bones for years.”

Megan smirks and shrugs.

“Can I use this as an excuse to get out of algebra?” Kennedy asks. “I think death by the mob over irrational numbers is a solid argument.”

“Good try. No,” I say quickly before shifting in my seat toward Megan. “How did you know that? That’s the most random thing to know.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Kennedy laughs. “It didn’t matter, but now it does. How did you know?”

Megan’s cheeks flush. “Fine. When I was a teenager, my mom married this guy, Rick. They were married for almost ten years. Anyway, he had a son, Rodrick, and I despised that kid. He would come over on the weekends, or every other one, and was such a know-it-all. It didn’t matter what you were talking about; Rodrick knew all about it. I got so mad at him once that I brought up menstruating, thinking he’d bail on that conversation. But nope. He tried to tell me all about how women’s bodies worked, and I’ve never wanted to punch someone in the face so hard in my entire life.”

“How old was he?” I ask, chuckling at the idea of a younger version of Megan trying to fight.

“Fourteen.” She looks at Kennedy, who is watching her, amused. “Fourteen-year-old boys don’t know shit. Ah,” she says, making a face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Said what?” Kennedy asks.

“Shit.”

I laugh. “You’re fine.”

“Yeah. You’ve met my dad and my uncle Gavin. I mean, everyone is allowed to curse but me,” Kennedy says.

“Because you’re still building your vocabulary, and you don’t need to resort to cheap words to express yourself,” I tell her. Again. “And if you,” I say, turning to Megan, “know some random fact that goes against this theory, keep it to yourself this time.”