Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 25
Atlas
It’s almost eight a.m. and the house smells like lemon polish and panic.
Maddie is a veritable storm. The vacuum whines like a jet engine as she drags it over the living room rug—again—laying perfect parallel lines like she’s mowing a golf course before the Masters.
She’s already wiped the counters twice, Windex’d the patio doors, and, God help us, alphabetized Grayce’s board books by title.
The only other sound is Grayce in her high chair banging a silicone spoon on the tray like a band director keeping time.
“Pretty sure that rug’s the cleanest thing in Pennsylvania,” I say as I sip on my second cup of coffee. “We could perform surgery on it.”
Maddie doesn’t look up, just executes a brutal ninety-degree turn with the vacuum. “It’s shedding.”
“It’s wool,” I say, as gently as possible, because I like my life. “It does that.”
She kills the vacuum, yanks the cord out of the wall, and glares at me. Her cheeks are flushed, hair yanked into a tiny topknot that’s already losing to gravity but fuck if it doesn’t look cute.
“Do you have any idea how many home visits I’ve done? How many houses I’ve walked into with sticky floors, suspicious smells, and piles of laundry growing legs? You know what it says to an evaluator? It says ‘We can’t manage our lives.’”
And there it is—the reason why Maddie is in a tizzy. We have our evaluation in mere minutes so the court can ensure we’re fit enough to adopt Grayce, and Maddie’s past traumas and experiences are causing her to doubt herself.
“Pretty sure the social worker isn’t going to ask the rug to recite the guardianship order,” I tease, hoping to break the negative vibe.
“Atlas.” One word, loaded. She’s not amused.
Maddie starts for the toy basket like she’s going to hide all the blocks that Grayce has gnawed on with her tiny teeth.
I put my mug down and meet her halfway.
“Hey.” I catch her hand. It’s cool and damp from wiping steel and glass and her pulse races beneath my thumb. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she snaps, which is true if we’re counting shallow, rapid inhales that wouldn’t keep a hamster alive.
I tug, just enough to bring her into me. If there’s anything that can get her to refocus, it’s for me to push her boundaries.
She resists for a heartbeat—pride, habit, fear, all those careful walls—but then I feel it.
The small shudder as her shoulders drop and I’m almost giddy when her forehead tips into my chest. I hold my breath when her fingers curl into my T-shirt like she’s anchoring herself, and that is a huge admission by Maddie.
She’s saying she likes the strength—not physical, but emotional—that I can give her.
I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around her, her coconut shampoo banishing the overwhelming smell of lemon polish. Grayce bangs her spoon and shrieks “DA!” like a referee announcing a goal, and that even draws a chuckle out of Maddie.
“You’re solid,” I murmur into Maddie’s hair. “We’re solid. She’s going to see what I see every day.”
“Not fair,” she manages, voice muffled in my shirt.
“What’s not fair?”
“That you can do that.” She exhales, the breath hot through cotton. “Just press some secret off button on my brain.”
“New talent. Picked it up between drills.” I press my mouth to the crown of her head before my common sense can stop me, a kiss so quick it could be mistaken for an accident. She goes still, and I wait for the retreat. Instead, her body softens a notch more against mine.
Then the doorbell rings.
Maddie jerks back like I’ve shocked her, palms smoothing her flyaway hairs. Her eyes scan the kitchen, and I can almost hear her mental checklist.
Stove off.
Counters immaculate.
Colorful island bowl with apples all polished to a bright sheen.
She straightens the tiny knitted hockey-sticks blanket over the back of the couch so the pattern is centered and then squares her shoulders.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and moves to the front door anyway.
The woman on our porch looks like she could audit a serial killer into better behavior. Late-fifties, sharp suit the color of thunderclouds, sensible flats. Hair in a bun so tight her eyes are slightly slanted. Reading glasses on the lower third of her nose and lips pressed together. She has a clipboard tucked under one arm like it’s a weapon.
“Ms. Porter,” Maddie says, bright and professional and a little too high in pitch. “Please, come in.”
Porter scans the entryway as she steps inside, and Maddie watches her like a hawk, taking in what might catch the woman’s notice. I grimace as I see a stray baby sock tucked between two couch cushions and surreptitiously manage to pocket it without being seen.
Grayce makes a delighted chirp and throws her spoon, which bounces off the tray, hits the tile, and skitters under the oven.