Chapter Thirteen

Evie

“Drop the diaper and back away,” Evie said.

Evie hadn’t even finished her morning mocha and her day had literally turned to shit. She’d gotten up early to go over some of the shop’s vendor invoices when Camila had called her from next door, saying it was an emergency, and turned Evie’s mess of a morning into a crime scene.

The stench alone blew her back a step, nearly taking her out at the knees. The visual—oh God, the visual. The giant finger-painted, poop-smeared wall was like the metaphorical landscape of her life.

Wielding tongs and a beach towel, she crossed the threshold of her neighbor’s nursery. She was stuck in a standoff with a diaper-lobbing toddler, who—in the three-minute argument between Evie and the coffeepot that was overflowing—had pulled a diaper-Houdini, then smeared herself with the entire contents of the dirty diaper. From the tips of her wheat-blond mohawk to the bottoms of her chubby little feet, Waverly left a mess in her wake wider than the Colorado River.

Jonah better be the best damn beard of all time.

“I say we go at her like she’s a greased pig,” Lenard’s eternally humored voice said from beside Evie. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Evie, like a fellow soldier preparing for battle.

“Or we can bribe her with a cookie and when she’s distracted wrap her up like a burrito, then take her outside and hose her off,” her mother said. Today she was wearing her hair in wavy curls, a polka-dotted sundress—Pretty Woman style—with stilettoes on her feet. She was also standing beside Evie. Then there was Camila, who was behind Evie, using her body as a shield.

“She’s not a dog,” Evie said.

“Sink or shower?” Moira said to Lenard.

“I’m not sure Jonah wants to wash his vegetables in a sink doubling as a makeshift changing table,” Evie said, noting that he was suspiciously MIA.

“Hose it is,” her parents said in unison. Even though they’d been divorced for over a decade, they were inseparable. Which was a testament to her mother’s generous spirit.

“Jonah,” Evie called out, her voice one octave shy of manic. “My parents are about to power wash your kid.”

Only silence answered back.

“Where is he?”

“Um, he said if there was any problem to call you and you’d help out. There was a problem so I called you,” Camila said. “I told Mr. Stark that I’d watch Waverly until he got back.”

“And he’s where?”

“Having coffee with someone.”

“Of course he is.”

What had she agreed to? That was a question she’d been asking herself all week. Yes, it had been her idea, but she’d clearly been out of her mind when she’d come up with it. Desperation could make people do crazy things.

Like staging a fake relationship to trick America. Was she willing to lie to her family to get them off her back? Sadly, yes. While Evie hadn’t posted anything on ClickByte, someone had videoed her and Jonah holding hands, and she could already see a reduction in suitors. Better still, other fans of the account were continuing to pour through the doors, but Evie was starting to wonder if she’d ever have privacy again.

For heaven’s sake, she had taken to wearing a ballcap low on her forehead, an oversize sweatshirt, and hunching over to make herself as inconspicuous as possible just to get groceries without incident. But this. This!

This was not a part of their pact.

She whipped out her phone and angrily whipped off a text.

Evie: My parents are about to corner and hogtie your kid like cattle.

She waited five seconds and when no dots appeared she pocketed her phone and shot Camila her mom-glare.

Camila grimaced. “He offered me a hundred bucks to get her ready for school.”

“It doesn’t look like she’s ready,” Lenard said, amused.

“I swear she was dressed. I looked away for one minute and when I came back she was like this,” Camila said.

“You looked away or stepped away to talk to a boy?” Not willing to break eye contact with the two-foot-tall terrorist who was holding the room hostage with threats of instigating a poop war, Evie didn’t meet Camila’s gaze. She didn’t need to. The guilty silence was answer enough.

“Well, it’s time to earn that money.”

“I can’t. I have a game today and if I get my uniform dirty, Coach will freak. Plus, she’s covered in…” Camila made a gagging sound. She’d not only inherited her dad’s features and ability to deflect, she’d also inherited his sensitive gag-reflex.

“Evelyn darling, you hold the towel out wide,” Lenard instructed, taking Evie’s hands and spreading them all the way out to her sides. “Moira, you dangle the cookie and coo softly.”

“And what will you do?” Evie asked.

Lenard shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Look fabulous.” He clapped his hands once. “Now, on with the show.”

Evie was about to tell him that the show needed more direction when Waverly’s little eyes slowly blinked and she took a step forward.

Everyone around Evie held their breath and took a giant step back. Waverly stopped, confused. She took another little toddle and they took another step bringing them up against the hallway wall.

As if reading the energy of the room, Waverly’s little lips formed a perfect little circle and her forehead scrunched. Her lids blinked rapidly and her hands fisted. Oh boy. Evie knew that look. That was the look of a kid who was two minutes from a meltdown.

Waverly plopped down on the floor, her bum leaving a fresh print on the hardwood, and lifted her little arms in the air. “Uppie. Uppie, Ve-Ve. Uppie.”

“Awww. She wants a hug,” her parents cooed, but Evie noticed they didn’t move forward to intercept the chocolate-covered cutie.

“Uppie,” Waverly said again, this time with a little more force, and what was Evie to do? She was already late for work, had agreed to a carpool switch-aroo, and clearly she was the only adult in the room brave enough to face poop.

“Come here, sweetie.” Holding her breath, Evie bent at the waist and wrapped the towel around Waverly’s roly-poly body and lifted her into her arms. Waverly rested her smeared cheek on Evie’s crisp, white shirt and let out a yawn. “How does a nice warm bath sound?”

…

Waverly was clean and dressed for school by the time Jonah had finally answered her text with an ever-so-helpful nugget of wisdom.

Jonah: Running late. On the way. Sometimes a hogtie is necessary. Take pics.

Evie: Helpful as always.

Jonah: Why aren’t you at work?

Evie: Our daughters conspired against me.

Jonah: So it’s a regular Monday?

Evie: This isn’t what I signed up for.

Jonah: When life gives you poop, reach for the hose.

Evie didn’t bother to respond. She put her phone away and cracked open the door to Jonah’s bedroom. It looked exactly how it had when Amber had been alive. Cork-colored walls, crisp white linens with bright yellow accents that matched her sunny personality. Only instead of the pristine presentation, it looked as if a dry cleaners had exploded, followed by a category-five hurricane.

The bed was unmade, and there were piles and piles of unfolded laundry. Some were on the floor, some hung up, and some just a crinkled mess spilling out of the hamper. She couldn’t tell if they were dirty or wear-ready. Or at least that’s what she told herself when she picked up one of the few folded shirts and gave it a big whiff.

A strange unfurling happened in her stomach. Warm and tingly and pheromone-induced.

Holding her breath so as not to be transported into a dreamy cologne commercial with a half-naked Adonis emerging from the water, she slid the shirt over her head. It dwarfed her, landing mid-thigh. She shuffled through another basket and found a pair of sweats. Ten sizes too big but it would have to do.

She was mid-pull when the hairs on the back of her neck went on alert.

“If you wanted to get into my pants that badly you just needed to ask,” a familiar voice said from behind and damn, if she hadn’t just stepped even further into it.