Pocketful of Sand(52)

Just letting that thought drift through my mind is enough to clog my throat and tie my stomach in knots.

I push aside my rising emotion and send a comically suspicious sidelong glance at my daughter. “Is this a stall tactic? Are you trying to get out of taking a bath?”

“No,” she answers. And I don’t think for a second that this had anything to do with her bath, but I need to take her mind off it.

I dance my fingers down her sides, eliciting a squeal. “Are you suuure?”

“I’m suuure!” she laughs, trying to wiggle away from my tickling fingers.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m sure!” she says again through her smiling lips.

“I guess the only way to prove it is to get this little body in the tub. Let’s go, little miss,” I say, scooping her up into my arms. “And then…ice cream!”

Her eyes widen. I try not to let her eat after her bath, and I control her sugar intake as much as I can, but tonight…well, tonight I think maybe ice cream is a good idea.

????

I didn’t hear from Cole last night. Now, it’s time for Emmy’s bath again, yet I still haven’t heard from him. I’ve picked up the cell phone at least a dozen times, thinking I’d text him, just to see if he got the water heater fixed. But I don’t. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours telling myself that maybe it’s for the best if I don’t hear from him again. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing for Emmy.

On the one hand, she seems to really like him. From that first day on the beach, she seems as taken with him, as inexplicably drawn to him as I am. Only in a different way, of course. Even though she hasn’t talked in front of him other than to call to me that first morning, she’s opening up around him, and that makes my heart soar with happiness. Plus, she seems to be fixated on me being happy with someone in life. Maybe that’s a natural concern for a child, but I think she’s a bit young to be getting started with thoughts like that.

But despite those positives, I worry that if she gets too attached to him and things don’t work out between us, she’ll be crushed. And she’s been hurt enough by the men in her life. I don’t want to risk scarring her further.

Maybe if Cole does call me back, I should have a talk with him about boundaries. Maybe I should have a talk with myself about boundaries.

After her bath, Emmy reads two of her favorite stories to me before her bedtime. As I watch her lips move and her eyes scan, as I listen to the brilliant way her young mind works, I pray that I won’t do anything to hurt her, intentionally or not. Children shouldn’t know hurt and fear the way she’s known them. Maybe that’s enough to last her a lifetime. Maybe the rest will be smooth sailing.

When she’s asleep, though, without her presence to distract me, the night drags on. I try to watch television, but nothing interests me. I find myself glancing outside repeatedly, looking for what I don’t know.

Well, yes I do. It’s not a what; it’s a who.

Cole. When I’m not actively thinking about something else, he’s on my mind. I click off the television and go to the kitchen for some water, my eyes automatically drawn to the house diagonal from mine. I wonder if he stays there at night. He was obviously staying there the night I went to get him. How many other nights has he spent there? Is he there now? If he is, why hasn’t he come over? Why haven’t I heard from him?

My endless spool of unanswered questions is enough to give me a headache, so I grab two Tylenol and take up a book that I bought from Jordan’s limited selection a couple of weeks back. I do my best to lose myself in it and let the heat from the fireplace sooth away my tension.

I wake up nearly two hours later, my book open and resting on my chest, the fire nearly died down. I’m almost grateful for the prospect of sleep. Trying not to think about Cole has been as frustrating as it’s been exhausting.

I stoke the fire, cut off the lights and head for bed. I must fall immediately to sleep, because it seems like a dream when I feel soft-yet-firm lips brush mine and a cool hand skates up the inside of my thigh.

I drift in that place between dream and reality for a few more seconds, enjoying the warm, liquid feel in my stomach and the ache that has started between my legs. But when cold air hits me as the covers are drawn slowly away from my body, I come groggily awake.

“Am I dreaming?” I say aloud.

“No, but I might be,” a sandpaper voice says.