Page 14 of The Pact
Savannah sighs like a woman who’s accepted that destruction is now a permanent part of her life.
“And that,” she says flatly, “would be your niece.”
“Wait, what? I thought for sure it was Remy.” I chuckle.
“Nope. Rhyan. Remy at least seems remorseful when he breaks things. Not Rhyan. She throws something while looking at me in the face and smiles.”
I grin. “How bad is it?”
“Well, this time, it appears she’s mad because she’s trying to use peanut butter as finger paint, and Remy tried taking it away from her. So, instead of handling it rationally, she threw it.”
I bark out a laugh. “I mean, it does sound fun.”
“She can be very passionate.” She huffs.
“I hate to tell you this, but I think you’re gonna have your hands full with her.” I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “She’s only four.”
“Almost four and a half,” she corrects. “But yes. While we were reading today, she told me that she planned to marry the dragon in the story and not the prince.”
“Good for her.” I smile.
“Honestly, it could be the healthiest relationship goal anyone in our family has had.”
I smile. “You say that like your husband isn’t a great guy and you’re not madly in love.”
“I do have a good one.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Oh, I have to tell you this. The other day, Chris took Remy to the store, and he texted me a photo of Remy in front of the lobster tank. He named one of the lobsters Bubbles.”
“You never name something you’re gonna eat. Rookie mistake.”
“Oh, yes. He tried to negotiate with Chris to get it.”
I can picture it clearly. Remy—with his chocolate-brown eyes and stubborn little chin, just like his mom’s—hands pressed against the glass while he made a case for a crustacean.
“He said no, right?”
“He stood his ground. I thought he might cave, so I intervened and had to get on the phone and said we were absolutely not having a lobster as a pet.”
“How did he take that?”
“Remy said, and I quote, ‘Mommy, you’re crushing my dreams.’”
I lose it, laughing so hard that I have to wipe tears from my eyes.
“He’s seven,” Savannah says, halfway between exasperation and admiration. “Seven, Wyatt. And how does he already know how to guilt-trip me like a teenager?”
“I hate to tell you this, but he gets that from you.”
“Excuse me, he absolutely does not.”
“Dad used to say that you could sell a drowning man water.”
“That was because he was proud of my strong spirit.”
“And maybe a little bit of fear thrown in.”
She laughs lightly, and for a minute, neither of us says anything. Our dad always pops up in our conversations. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to though. At least most of the time.
“He would have loved them, wouldn’t he?” she asks quietly.
