“Why do you have those things in your face?” Smith asks, pointing to my lip ring.

“Because I want to. Maybe the better question is, why don’t you have any?” I say to turn the tables on him, trying not to remember that he’s a kid after all.

“Did they hurt?” he asks, ducking my question.

“No, not at all.”

“They look like it.” He half smiles.

He isn’t so bad, I guess, but I still don’t like the idea of babysitting him.

“Almost finished in here,” Tessa calls out.

“Okay, I’m just teaching him how to make a homemade bomb out of a soda bottle,” I tease, which causes her to poke her head around the corner to check on us.

“She’s mental,” I tell him, and he laughs, dimples showing.

“She’s pretty,” he whispers into cupped hands.

“Yeah, she is. Isn’t she?” I nod and look up at Tess with her hair pulled up into some sort of nest on top of her head, her yoga pants and a plain T-shirt still on, and I nod again. She’s beautiful, and she doesn’t even have to try.

I know she can hear us still, and I catch a glimpse of her smile as she turns to finish her task in the kitchen. I don’t get why she’s smiling like that; so what if I’m talking to this kid? He’s still annoying, like all the other half-sized humans.

“Yeah, really pretty,” he agrees again.

“Okay, calm down, little dude. She’s mine,” I tease.

He looks at me with an O for a mouth. “Your what? Your wife?”

“No—fuck, no,” I scoff.

“Fuck, no?” he repeats.

“Shit, don’t say that!” I reach across the couch to cover his mouth.

“Don’t say ‘shit’?” he asks, shaking free of my hand.

“No, don’t say ‘shit,’ or ‘fuck.’?” This is one of the many reasons I shouldn’t be around kids.

“I know they’re bad words,” he tells me, and I nod.

“So don’t say them,” I remind him.

“Who is she if she isn’t your wife?”

God, he’s a nosy little shit. “She’s my girlfriend.” I should have never got this kid talking in the first place.

He folds his hands together and looks up at me like a little priest or something. “You want her to be your wife?”

“No, I don’t want her to be my wife,” I say slowly but clearly so he can hear me and maybe get it this time.

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“And you have a baby?”

“No! Hell, no! Where do you get these things?” Just hearing them aloud is stressing me out.

“Why do—” he starts to ask, but I cut him off.

“Stop asking so many questions.” I groan and he nods before grabbing the remote out of my hand and changing the channel.

Tessa hasn’t checked up on us in a few minutes, so I decide to go into kitchen and see if she’s almost finished. “Tess . . . are you almost done, because he’s talking way too much,” I complain, grabbing a piece of broccoli from the dish she’s preparing. She hates when I eat before a meal is ready, but there is a five-year-old in my living room, so I can eat this damn broccoli.

“Yeah, just another minute or two,” she answers without looking at me. Her tone is strange, and something seems off.

“You okay?” I ask her when she turns around with glassy eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It was just the onions.” She shrugs and turns the faucet on to wash her hands.

“It’s okay . . . he’ll talk to you, too. He’s warmed up now,” I assure her.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not that . . . it’s just the onions,” she says again.

Chapter seventy-one

HARDIN

The little shit remains mute and just nods when Tessa asks him cheerfully, “Do you like the chicken, Smith?”

“It’s really good!” I say overenthusiastically, to soften the blow of the kid still not wanting to speak to her.

She gives me an appreciative smile but doesn’t meet my eyes. The rest of the meal is eaten in silence.

While Tessa cleans up the kitchen, I head back into the living room. I can hear the small footsteps following me.

“Can I help you?” I ask and plop down on the couch.

“No.” He shrugs, turning his attention to the television.

“Okay, then . . .” There is literally nothing on tonight.

“Is my dad going to die?” the small voice next to me suddenly asks.

I look at him. “What?”

“My dad, will he be dead?” Smith asks, though he looks pretty unfazed by the whole topic.

“No, he’s just sick with food poisoning or something.”

“My mom was sick and now she’s dead,” he says, and the little quaver in his voice makes me realize he’s not immune to the worry, causing me to choke on my own breath.

“Erm . . . yeah. That was different.” Poor kid.

“Why?”

Christ, he asks so many questions. I want to call for Tess, but something about the worried expression on his face stops me. He won’t even speak to her, so I don’t think he would want me to bring her in here.

“Your dad is just a little sick . . . and your mum was really sick. Your dad will be fine.”

“Are you lying?” He speaks well beyond his years, sort of the way I always have.

I suppose that is what happens when you’re forced to grow up too quickly. “No, I would tell you if your dad was going to die,” I say, and mean it.