Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Dean is totally going to fire me, and I really can’t blame him, I guess.
I blame Tasha.
How could a woman who’s called me Clover to my face in every interaction we’ve ever had, tell my new employer my name was Meredith?
Meredith.
Who the heck is she? I have no memory of being called Meredith or Merry or anything else. I’ve always gone by my middle name, the hippy one my hippy mother gave me, because clovers are good luck, and I was her lucky baby girl.
She’d tried to get pregnant for years with her ex-husband before accidentally getting knocked up with me. She was nearly forty and thought her window for having a child had closed. Then, one night after a Cinco de Mayo party where the tequila had flowed a bit too freely, my father, her first and only one-night stand, made her dreams come true. She didn’t even know his last name, so it wasn’t easy to track him down when those two little lines appeared on the test. And when she did eventually make contact, Dad told her he wasn’t interested in being a parent.
But that was fine with Mom. She swore she was excited to raise me alone without any “stinky boys” around to ruin the fun.
At least that’s what my father told me.
I don’t remember much about my mom except how safe I felt in her arms and how sad I was the day the policeman picked me up from daycare, taking me to my father’s house, where he told me I would live from now on.
But even my father—whom I’d only met a few times at that point—knew to call me Clover. The only person who’s ever called me Meredith was my stepmother, and I’m pretty sure she did it specifically because she knew I hated it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“One second, Bella,” I say, setting her on the floor by the open dishwasher. “Can you put this coffee cup on the top rack for me?”
“Yes, I can. That’s Grammy’s favorite,” she says, taking the chunky mug I’ve just rinsed in both tiny hands. “I’m a good helper.”
“You are a good helper,” I agree, glancing down at my cell.
It’s Tasha asking—How’s it going? Settling in okay?
I stare at the screen.
How to respond?
Maybe… Hey, Tasha, quick question, did you know that the emergency placement you found for me is the same man I went to third base with in a bar parking lot on Saturday night?
No?
Well, funnily enough, neither did he because you gave him the wrong name, and now everything is weird.
Really, really weird.
So weird.
But of course, I can’t say any of that, so I shoot back—It’s going great! The girls are so sweet, and their dad is already on his way to the airport. Thanks for getting this sorted out so fast.
Not a lie. Not the whole truth, but the best I can do at the moment.
“Okay, ready for a cereal bowl?” I ask, slipping my phone in my back pocket. “You can load it right next to the mug.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Bella says in a wobbly voice. “I don’t think I can.”
I glance sharply down, something in her tone alerting my lizard brain to danger. “Why not? What’s up, honey? Are you okay?”
“No,” she says, peering up at me with a pale face. “I feel hot inside.”
I blink. “Oh no, that doesn’t sound good.” I press the back of my fingers to her forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, but we can—”
Bella cuts me off by bending over and yacking with a soft blehck.
Partly into the open dishwasher.
Partly onto her tiny pink tennis shoes.
It isn’t a lot—maybe a handful of what looks like partially digested cereal—but the second the mess hits her shoes, she begins to wail, “Oh, no. I sick! I sick, Clover! I told Daddy the bananas were bad bananas! They’re the mean bananas that make people sick. And now I made a mess on my shoes.”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. Don’t worry, we can clean them up just like new,” I say, grabbing a dish towel and crouching down beside her. I brush her silky curls from her forehead with one hand while I wipe her face with the other. “But first, let’s make sure you’re okay. Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?”
She pulls in a shuddery breath. “I don’t know. My tongue tastes yucky.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “I bet. Here, let’s get you a drink of water.” I reach up beside the sink, grabbing one of the waiting dishes. “This is your cup, right? The pink one with the duck on the front?”
She nods. “Yes. That’s my favorite.”
“It’s really cute. I love ducks,” I say, filling the glass from the tap and pressing it gently into her hand. “Take a sip and swish it around your mouth. But just a little sip,” I caution when she tips the cup back with enthusiasm. “Let’s see how it feels in your tummy before you drink too much.”