eyebrows, make him work. “About?”
“I don’t know,” he says, taking over as I step away from the swing set. We’ve been trading back-and-forth for nearly half an hour, steady like a metronome. Hannah could swing for days, chubby baby legs kicking happily; she figured out clapping a few months ago, and every once in a while she smacks her hands together with some kind of secret baby glee. “This. Me.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t changed my mind about you.”
Sawyer snorts. “Ouch.”
“Sawyer—” I break off, huffing a little. “I’m trying, you know?”
“I know,” he says.
We push in silence, patient. The sun glares. My lungs ache like they’re full of dust, dry and barren. “What was the best place you visited?” I ask finally, not so much because I want to know—it’s almost safer not to, I think—but because I can’t imagine what else to ask him and the quiet shreds my nerves. There’s a map of the United States stenciled in bright paint on the blacktop. I wonder if small things like that will ever stop making me sad about everything I missed out on. “What was your favorite?”
Sawyer glances at me once, like he’s surprised, and then thinks a moment. “Nashville,” he decides eventually. “You would really like Nashville.”
I hum a little, noncommittal. “Would I.”
“Yeah, Reena,” he tells me. “I think you would.”
“Out,” Hannah says, quite clearly, and Sawyer grins.
“Out?” he repeats.
“Out!”
“Okay, then. Out it is.” He lifts her from the swing and sets her on the ground; she toddles happily toward the sandbox, quick and unsteady. “My mom says it’s been good for her,” he tells me. “Hannah, I mean, having all hergrandparents around, and you, and—” He smiles, a little shyly. “She says she’s really smart.”
Well, that gets my attention. “Your mom said that?” I ask, disbelieving—Hannah’s smart all right, but if it has anything to do with the keen interest shown by her grandparents, then I’m the Cardinal of Rome. “Seriously?”
“Uh, yeah.” Sawyer looks suddenly uncomfortable, like he thinks he’s possibly misstepped—it’s not an expression I remember from back when we were together, him so sure of himself all the time. “Why, is that not … ?”
It boggles me a little, though not as much as you’d think. Lydia’s probably pulling out every stop she can think of to get Sawyer to stick around this time, and if that means convincing him that everybody gets along great around these parts, that we’re all some kind of modern, blended family—well, then, so be it. Still, for some reason I don’t have it in me to give her away, not explicitly: It feels like a lot of work for nothing, on top of which it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that there’s some small part of me hoping it will work and he’ll stay.
I shrug. “No, she’s definitely something,” I say, not bothering to qualify which
she
I might be referring to or what that something might possibly be. I nod at Hannah, who’s calling my name from the edge of the sandbox. “Here I come, babycakes!”
Sawyer looks at me like he’s not totally buying what I’m selling; he doesn’t push me on it, though, like maybewe’ve got some tacit agreement to play nice with each other on this hot, sunny afternoon. “So, hey,” he says instead, as we follow Hannah on a scenic tour of the playground, sun bleaching white on the back of her neck. She squats down to grab a handful of sand and almost loses her balance, and I reach out a steadying hand. “Are you still writing?”
I laugh before I can stop it, a low angry cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West. I try not to feel bitter. It doesn’t always work. “No,” I tell him. “No, not really.”
Sawyer frowns. “That’s too bad.”
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it, but:
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because.” I shrug and dig some sunscreen out of my bag for the
“I don’t know,” he says, taking over as I step away from the swing set. We’ve been trading back-and-forth for nearly half an hour, steady like a metronome. Hannah could swing for days, chubby baby legs kicking happily; she figured out clapping a few months ago, and every once in a while she smacks her hands together with some kind of secret baby glee. “This. Me.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t changed my mind about you.”
Sawyer snorts. “Ouch.”
“Sawyer—” I break off, huffing a little. “I’m trying, you know?”
“I know,” he says.
We push in silence, patient. The sun glares. My lungs ache like they’re full of dust, dry and barren. “What was the best place you visited?” I ask finally, not so much because I want to know—it’s almost safer not to, I think—but because I can’t imagine what else to ask him and the quiet shreds my nerves. There’s a map of the United States stenciled in bright paint on the blacktop. I wonder if small things like that will ever stop making me sad about everything I missed out on. “What was your favorite?”
Sawyer glances at me once, like he’s surprised, and then thinks a moment. “Nashville,” he decides eventually. “You would really like Nashville.”
I hum a little, noncommittal. “Would I.”
“Yeah, Reena,” he tells me. “I think you would.”
“Out,” Hannah says, quite clearly, and Sawyer grins.
“Out?” he repeats.
“Out!”
“Okay, then. Out it is.” He lifts her from the swing and sets her on the ground; she toddles happily toward the sandbox, quick and unsteady. “My mom says it’s been good for her,” he tells me. “Hannah, I mean, having all hergrandparents around, and you, and—” He smiles, a little shyly. “She says she’s really smart.”
Well, that gets my attention. “Your mom said that?” I ask, disbelieving—Hannah’s smart all right, but if it has anything to do with the keen interest shown by her grandparents, then I’m the Cardinal of Rome. “Seriously?”
“Uh, yeah.” Sawyer looks suddenly uncomfortable, like he thinks he’s possibly misstepped—it’s not an expression I remember from back when we were together, him so sure of himself all the time. “Why, is that not … ?”
It boggles me a little, though not as much as you’d think. Lydia’s probably pulling out every stop she can think of to get Sawyer to stick around this time, and if that means convincing him that everybody gets along great around these parts, that we’re all some kind of modern, blended family—well, then, so be it. Still, for some reason I don’t have it in me to give her away, not explicitly: It feels like a lot of work for nothing, on top of which it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that there’s some small part of me hoping it will work and he’ll stay.
I shrug. “No, she’s definitely something,” I say, not bothering to qualify which
she
I might be referring to or what that something might possibly be. I nod at Hannah, who’s calling my name from the edge of the sandbox. “Here I come, babycakes!”
Sawyer looks at me like he’s not totally buying what I’m selling; he doesn’t push me on it, though, like maybewe’ve got some tacit agreement to play nice with each other on this hot, sunny afternoon. “So, hey,” he says instead, as we follow Hannah on a scenic tour of the playground, sun bleaching white on the back of her neck. She squats down to grab a handful of sand and almost loses her balance, and I reach out a steadying hand. “Are you still writing?”
I laugh before I can stop it, a low angry cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West. I try not to feel bitter. It doesn’t always work. “No,” I tell him. “No, not really.”
Sawyer frowns. “That’s too bad.”
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it, but:
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because.” I shrug and dig some sunscreen out of my bag for the
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