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  “Sure,” I said, leaning in to hug her good-bye. She hugged me back, tighter and longer than usual, then pulled back and looked me firmly in the eyes.

  “I take back what I said before,” she told me. “You can do this, Robin. You’re doing it already.”

  I gave her a grateful smile. Until right that second, I had no idea how desperately I’d needed to hear those words.

  * * *

  I didn’t have to pick the kids up at daycare until five, so when I got off work that afternoon at three, I decided to take advantage of those two free hours and do something I hadn’t done in months.

  Margins Bookstore was located in the north end of the city, tucked between a nail salon and an organic bakery. Like most of the stores on the street, it was small and independently-owned. I liked it mainly because of its peaceful atmosphere. Last fall, I’d taken to hanging out in the Biographies and Memoirs section, where there was a cozy little nook with a couch to sit on when you got tired of browsing for books. I’d spent hours on that threadbare, olive-green couch, studying or flipping through magazines or just enjoying the warmth and quiet. It relaxed me.

  Now, as I drove down the traffic-clogged streets, I recalled the ear-splitting pitch of Lila’s shriek this morning when I refused to let her go to daycare wearing a Hello Kitty nightgown and purple rain boots. Peace and quiet were more than welcome right now, and so was caffeine.

  After grabbing a cup of coffee and a raspberry muffin at the organic bakery next door, I carried both into Margins and headed straight for the vacant couch. The entire store was vacant, but I didn’t mind. No one was around to disturb me as I ate my snack and perused the latest copy of Us Weekly, which I’d snagged from the magazine rack at the front of the store on my way through.

  I could feel my muscles loosening as I breathed in the scent of new and used books—each had a distinct smell—mingled with the fragrant steam rising from my coffee cup. With a relieved sigh, I dug my raspberry muffin out of its paper bag and tore off a large chunk.

  “No food or beverages allowed.”

  I gasped, almost choking on a mouthful of muffin, and looked in the direction of the voice. A few feet to my left, in the True Crime section, stood a man who seemed to have materialized out of the dusty air. He was sifting through books, not even looking at me, so I wasn’t completely sure if he was the one who’d spoken. But no one else was in the store, so it was either him or a bibliophile ghost.

  “Excuse me?” I said, trying to subtly dislodge a raspberry from my esophagus.

  The man paused in his book-organizing and glanced at me, then at the muffin in my hand. “No food or beverages,” he repeated. He gestured with his chin toward the front of the store. “There’s a sign on the door.”

  There was? I’d never noticed a sign. I coughed and took a sip of coffee, which was, of course, a beverage, and therefore banned. But damn it, I’d paid a small fortune for this organic snack and I wasn’t going to throw it in the trash just so I could keep sitting here. “But Kenny always lets me eat and drink in here,” I said, thinking I’d gain some cred for being on a first name basis with the owner.

  “Well,” the man said, gazing at me steadily now. “I’m not Kenny.”

  That’s for sure, I thought. Kenny was about fifty, with graying hair and wrinkles and a big, bulbous nose. But this guy…this guy was tall and lean with close-cropped dirty-blond hair and a shadow of light brown stubble on his jaws. Not Kenny-like in the slightest.

  “And unlike Kenny,” the guy went on as he slid a book off the shelf, turned it around, and returned it to the same spot, “I’m not a sucker for a pretty face. So…no food or drinks in here. Please.”

  I gaped at him. He was actually going to make me either ditch my food or leave? Seriously? All I wanted was an hour or so of solitude before I had to go home and deal with food prep and tantrums and bedtimes and questions. One measly hour, when no one wanted anything from me and I didn’t have to move. Was that so much to ask?

  “It’s not like I’m hurting anything,” I said, not ready to give in. I’d never been the strict rule-following type. Rules were made to be bent, in my opinion. Or overlooked entirely.

  The guy moved on to the next shelf, the one closest to me, pointedly looking at the scuffed wood floor beneath my feet as he went. I followed his gaze and noticed the sprinkle of muffin crumbs, some of which were buried in the gaps between the boards. Oh.

  “Look, I’ll clean it up,” I assured him. Using the sole of my sneaker, I tried pushing the crumbs into an orderly pile, but only succeeded in squishing them deeper into the gaps. The guy narrowed his eyes at me, unimpressed.

  “No, I’ll clean it up,” he said, turning back to his task. “May as well add ‘janitor’ to my mounting list of duties.”

  I felt a pinprick of remorse but pushed it back, focusing instead on this guy’s irritating presence. He examined the spines of the books on the top shelf, then rearranged two paperbacks. What was he doing, alphabetizing them? I’d already worked out that he was an employee here and not just some anal-retentive customer, but it seemed to me like he was prolonging this chore just so he could keep an eye on me. I had a passing urge to shove the rest of the muffin into my mouth, follow it with a few gulps of coffee, and then belch loudly.

  “Why have a couch here if you don’t want people to sit on it and relax?” I asked, stealthily brushing a few stray crumbs off the yoga pants I wore for work.

  “Sit and relax all you want.” He scanned the next shelf, sliding his fingers along the spines. “I’m just sick of you college kids coming in here and treating the place like it’s a Starbucks. Or a library,” he added, eyeing the open magazine in my lap, which was also dotted with crumbs.

  I stifled a snort. College kids? He didn’t look much older than a student himself. Mid-twenties, max. I missed Kenny, with his tobacco-stained smile and easygoing ways. I could’ve eaten an entire turkey dinner in here and he wouldn’t have batted an eye. Where had this guy come from and what the hell was his problem? He kept looking at me like I was some dumb, carefree college girl whose sole responsibly in life was to defile bookstores and aggravate staff members. Like he was so sure he had me pegged. And it pissed me off way more than it should have.

  Screw this.

  I stuffed the half-eaten muffin back in its bag, closed Us Weekly, and grabbed my coffee from its perch on the arm of the couch. The guy was watching me, I could sense it, but I didn’t look at him as I stood up and dug around in my purse for a five dollar bill. When I found one, I walked up to him and pressed it into his palm.

  “For the magazine,” I said when he looked at me, surprised. He had wide, pale blue eyes, like Bradley Cooper. Under different circumstances, I may have flirted with him. May have attempted to coax the tension out of those broad shoulders of his. But not now, not when I felt like asking him if he ever considered undergoing surgery to remove the giant stick from his ass.

  “Thanks,” he replied, slipping the five into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he turned back to the shelf, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. Like he was trying not to laugh. Like he was trying not to laugh at me.

  Cheeks burning, I slung my purse over my shoulder and made tracks for the door. Out on the sidewalk, I took one last sip of my coffee before tossing it into the nearest garbage can. So much for solitude.

  Chapter 4

  My heart sank three days later when I looked at my vibrating phone and saw Tiny Tots Childcare on the screen. What now? I thought, and quickly scanned the empty reception area of the gym, making sure no one was watching before I answered.

  “Drake is running a fever,” a woman informed me. “You need to pick him up.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. It was eleven a.m. and only two hours into my shift. Wade wasn’t going to simply reprimand me this time—he was going to murder me. I let out a sigh and said, “Okay.”

  I shoved my cell back into the outer pocket of my purse and stepped out from behind my desk. The clink of f
ree weights combined with guttural grunts and motivational praises told me that my boss was in the bench press area, spotting someone. I glanced toward the entrance to make sure no customers were coming and then headed back there.

  “Two more,” he was telling a shorter but equally muscular man who was pressing what looked like three hundred pounds. I waited until he’d safely racked the weight before interrupting them.

  “Wade,” I said as unobtrusively as I could. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  “Trouble out front?” he asked, moving out from behind the bench and walking toward me.

  “No, it’s—” I glanced at the weight lifter, who’d sat up upon hearing my voice and was now raking his gaze down my body. “I have to go. Something came up.”

  Wade stared at me for a few seconds, his dark brown eyes going from inquisitive to flat. “Do you like your job here, Ms. Calvert?”

  “Of course.” I swallowed. “And you’ve been very patient with me, but…it’s kind of an emergency.” I quickly explained the situation, reiterating that I really had no other option. He continued to stare. I could tell that I had him flummoxed. Like Abby had claimed, I’d never really given him any trouble before. Save for the incident on Friday, my work record was virtually spotless. But I could sense this advantage wearing thin.

  “You can come work for me, sweetheart,” called the bench press guy, who’d obviously overheard. “You’d fit in real nice at my club.”

  I could only imagine what type of club he meant. “You couldn’t afford me,” I called back, just to shut him up. He laughed.

  “Eyes on the ceiling, Jimmy,” Wade told him, then turned back to refocus on me. “Okay. Go. But don’t think for a second that I’m all right with this. You need to figure something out, and soon.”

  I nodded, so grateful that my eyes welled with tears. To prevent him from seeing them, I tossed out a “thanks” and speed-walked back to the reception area. Wade was right—something had to change. I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my job like this.

  In the car on the way to Tiny Tots, Taylor’s words from a few days ago came back to me. Maybe you should call the police. I’d wanted to call, several times. But every time, right when I was about to pick up the phone, I’d start thinking about the possible ramifications of getting the law involved. If I reported my mother missing, what would happen to the kids? The cops would probably contact a social worker, who would come to the house, deem me ill-equipped to care for them, and stick them in foster care. With strangers. Or send them off to Lowry to live with Alan’s parents, which was almost as bad because the twins barely knew them.

  No. They needed to stay with me.

  At the daycare, I was greeted by a small brunette woman and a whimpering, red-faced Drake. When he saw me, the whimpering turned into sobs. The kid looked miserable.

  “He’s been tugging on his ear,” the woman told me. “Ear infection, I’m guessing.”

  Great. Ear infection meant doctors and antibiotics, and I had no idea who the twins’ doctor was or where he or she was located. “He was fine when he woke up,” I said, hugging my little brother to my chest. He felt warm, like he’d been sitting in the sun for hours like my old cat Tabitha used to do.

  “These things come on quickly sometimes.” She glanced behind her at the closed door to the playroom area. “I don’t think his sister noticed him leaving.”

  I told her I’d be back to pick up Lila at the regular time, then carried my still-sobbing brother out to my car. Once he was buckled in, I sat in the driver’s seat and looked up walk-in clinics on my phone. I had no idea how parents managed before the internet.

  Three wearisome hours later, Drake was camped out on the family room couch in front of the TV, belly full of Children’s Advil and amoxicillin. With him settled for the moment, I sneaked off to the kitchen to grab a diet Coke and try Alan’s hotel for the tenth time in two days. I hadn’t spoken to him since our conversation on Saturday. I was pretty sure he was avoiding me.

  “Yes?”

  I jumped, sloshing a few drips of Coke on my hand. I hadn’t been expecting an answer.

  “It’s me. Robin,” I clarified, in case he’d failed to recognize my voice again.

  After a pause, he said, “What is it? Did she come back?”

  “No.” I put the can of Coke on the counter and wiped my hand on my pants. “I need money.”

  “Money.”

  “Yes, money,” I said, annoyance creeping into my voice. “To buy things. For your children.”

  “There’s some cash in the cupboard above the—”

  “She took it, remember?” I sighed and leaned against the pantry door. I felt completely sapped of energy. “I’ve been using my own money for babysitting and food, and Drake needed some medication for an ear infection.”

  Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother to ask if his son was okay. “I can wire a couple of hundred to your account, I guess. Give me the information.”

  Since I was going to suggest this very thing myself, I already had my account number and other info written down. I read it off to him. “How long will it take?”

  “I’m not sure. Look, I’m just heading out to meet a client for dinner—”

  “So you’ll be back Sunday, right?”

  “Sunday. Yes.” Static buzzed through the lines like a swarm of angry bees. “I land at ten-forty in the morning, so I’ll probably get in around the same time as my parents.”

  My hand tightened around the phone. “Your…what?”

  “I called my parents yesterday. If your mother isn’t back by Sunday morning, they’re coming to pick up the twins.”

  “But I already told you…I’ll look after the twins. I don’t want your parents to take them.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want, Robin. Like you said, they’re my children, and that means I get to decide what happens to them. Not you.”

  Drake was calling me from the other room, but I barely heard him. The rage tearing through me was hot, swift, and all-encompassing. I hung up the phone with a shaking hand and considered hurling it against the wall. But the noise would scare Drake, so I didn’t. Instead, I clutched it tightly and sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to center myself like I’d been taught during yoga class at the gym. While I breathed, in and out and in and out, Taylor’s words came back to me once again.

  You can do this. You’re doing it already.

  I was doing it, to the best of my limited abilities. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I would last.

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning, Lila burst into my room and climbed into bed with me. “I’m ready,” she said.

  “For what,” I mumbled into my pillow. I opened my eye a slit and saw that she was dressed in a pink leotard and a matching pink headband that covered her pale eyebrows. She looked like a mini aerobics instructor from the eighties.

  “Gymnastics,” she said, standing up at the bottom on the bed. “I can do somersaults. Watch!”

  I sat up and grabbed her before she tumbled off the bed. “Gymnastics,” I repeated, yawning. “Right. You and Drake go to classes on Saturday mornings.” For a moment I considered skipping it, but they’d missed last week’s class because I’d had to work. Wade had given me the weekend off to “get my shit together,” and Drake was feeling much better after a few doses of his goopy banana-flavored medicine, so I figured I owed them a little fun.

  Gymnastics class was at least one thing I didn’t have to search on Google. I’d taken them once before, when Mom was sick with a stomach virus. Knowing this one small thing about their schedule made me feel almost capable. We showed up at the sports stadium right on time for their class and I went to join the other parents/nannies/care givers on the bank of plastic chairs lined up against one wall. The room was filled with soft mats and bouncy pillows and about a dozen preschoolers running around in active wear. The noise was deafening.

  Most of the adults around me were on their phones, either texting or recording their ki
ds as they bounced and tumbled, but I kept my eyes on my brother and sister. They were on one of the mats, practicing their tumbling as an instructor—a fit woman in gray sweats—observed them, clapping and praising their form. Their little faces looked so happy and proud, and my heart swelled, watching them. We’d grown closer this week, Drake and Lila and I, bonding through bedtime stories and illness and the unspoken awareness that we were all in this together.

  One more day.

  One more day and they could be gone, probably would be gone, four hours away from home with grandparents they hardly knew. Grandparents who didn’t have a yard full of toys and yogurt tubes in the fridge and a stash of M&Ms in the pantry for when they successfully used the potty. Would they hear Drake when he woke up with one of his nightmares at four a.m.? Did they know Lila was allergic to strawberries? Did they know anything about their grandchildren at all?

  Anxiety covered me like a blanket, making my hands shake. They’ll hate me, I thought. I was their big sister, the only person left in their world who they fully trusted. Now I had to stand aside while they got dumped off on virtual strangers. And every morning, when they woke up in a strange room in a strange house to find me not there, they’d think I abandoned them. Just like our mother.

  I was no better than her.

  “Are you okay, honey?”

  My eyes were squeezed shut, holding in tears, and I opened them to see the concerned face of the woman sitting next to me. She was older, maybe sixty, with graying blond hair and hazel eyes. Her hand, wrinkled and freckled and adorned with rings, rested on my forearm.

  “I’m fine,” I said, but the words came out tight and high-pitched, indicating the opposite.

  “Are you sure?” The woman eyed me carefully, and her warm, grandmotherly kindness almost made me start bawling for real. “You seem upset.”

  I nodded, unable to answer, and she tactfully let go of my arm and turned away. Then, a few minutes later: “Which one is yours?”