Wren shook her head. Most of the other boys and girls in Mrs. Gibson’s class had a mommy and a daddy, and none of them lived with their mamaws and papaws, but that was okay with her. She didn’t want a daddy. Daddies kissed mommies, and Wren never liked the grownup boys who kissed Laurie. Especially Darryl.
He gave her bad dreams.
“If you had a daddy, we could move into a real house, and you could have your own room,” Laurie said, her eyes big.
“This is a real house,” Wren said, looking around at the ceiling and windows. “It’s Mamaw and Papaw’s house.”
“This is an apartment. We live above Mamaw and Papaw’s house. It’s not the same as having your own house,” Laurie told her. “Darryl has his own house.”
Wren looked up at her mother. “I don’t want to live with Darryl.”
Laurie frowned. “Why not?”
Wren’s face grew hot. She swallowed. “He came into the bathroom when I was in the tub.”
Laurie laughed and leaned back against her makeup table. “The other day? He told me. That was an accident, Wren. He said he was sorry.”
Wren thought he hadn’t looked sorry. “I don’t like Darryl.”
Laurie made a face. “Well, you’re just spoiled. Mamaw and Papaw spoil you. Darryl’s good to me,” Laurie said, looking away and smiling.
“Because he gives you medicine?” Wren asked, pointing to Laurie’s arms. She’d seen Darryl giving Laurie a shot just like at the doctor’s. Wren hated shots, but lying down across their bed, Laurie seemed to like them.
Laurie turned back to her makeup table, pushing down her sleeves. “Yes… medicine… I need to finish getting ready. Go out back and play now, Wrennie.”
“SO, A DOCTOR, huh?” Cherise stretched out in the bed next to her, eating one of Mamaw Gigi’s fried peach pies before they binged on Netflix. Wren wasn’t allowed back at work until the end of the week, and it was only Monday. “This is so freakin’ good, by the way. How can you be tired of them?”
“I’ve only been eating them since Saturday. That and Mamaw’s shrimp stew,” Wren said, making a face. “And please don’t get pie-crust crumbs in my bed. I’m not supposed to change my sheets or ‘strain the surgery site’ for three more days.”
“Is that what yourdoctorsaid? The one whodrove you homeandcleaned out Agnes’s litterbox?”Cherise wrinkled her nose at the thought. “Shit, Wren, that’s pretty gross. I don’t think I’d even do that for you.”
Wren dug her heel into her best friend’s hip. “Bitch, I’ve cleaned puke out of your hair. I’ve gone to the DMV with you. I’ve stopped you from going home with that dishwasher from Agave… the one with the acne scars and the eyebrow mole—”
“Serge—” Cherise groaned, hiding her face with the hand that wasn’t gripping her fried peach pie.
“Yes,Serge! That’s worth at least a little cat-poop cleanup, my friend.”
“You’re right. Fine. You win. But that doesn’t explain why Dr. Dreamy did it.”
“I never said he was dreamy,” Wren insisted, shaking her head. “Besides, if you’re making aGrey’s Anatomyreference, it’s McDreamy.”
“I wasn’t making aGrey’s Anatomyreference, and you’re blushing, so I know he’s dreamy.”
“Time for aFireflymarathon,” Wren said, hitting the remote.
“Ooh, Captain Malcolm Reynolds.” Cherise sighed. “He could command mySerenityany day.”
They rewatched the entire season ofFireflyin one go, burning up Cherise’s day off and eating too many fried peach pies. On Tuesday, Cherise abandoned her in time to cover the lunch shift at Agave, and Wren had to face the fact that cabin fever had become a very real problem.
She felt so much better — unless she coughed or sneezed or tried to pick up Agnes. Then she remembered she essentially had two holes in her torso. The swelling had gone down almost completely. The only hints of her ordeal were the two scars.
But every time she fed Agnes, she thought about Dr. Hawthorne. And if she were honest with herself, she didn’t need the cat to remind her. Cherise had done a great job of that, but even without her, he’d crossed her mind dozens of times since Friday night.
And when she’d catch herself remembering his blue eyes, the blue of a midsummer night sky, she’d quietly scold herself for daydreaming. Dr. Hawthorne was not an approved subject for her imagination. He’d helped her out because he felt sorry for her, and she had to admit that she must have made a pretty pathetic picture: a 5’1” girl fresh from surgery, sitting alone on a hospital bench for hours. She grew embarrassed just thinking about it.
The way she saw it, lying on her antique sofa picturing his dark-washed eyes or the swooping curl over his forehead would be like Curtis crushing on her from his park bench. Except in this scenario, she was the one whose life was a wreck and who needed a handout from a stranger.
That’s not true.She consoled herself.I could’ve gotten a ride.