186 Miles (26 page)

Vince

I
watched her as she pushed our two children on the swings.  She looked so
beautiful today.  Her hair was longer now, pulled into a high pile.  I missed
her short cut, but I would never tell her that.  Her lips were shiny and pink. 
She wore a white sundress; it dipped low in the back. 
God, she looked good.
 

I
sat, leaning up against the hard back of the picnic table.  She took turns shifting
between them.  Ramona laughed and screamed, begging Ray to push her higher.

Within
moments, Ramona turned sour.  She cried now, being melodramatic, as she was often
known to do.  She ran to me, her short red dress riddled with dirt.

“Daddy,”
she sobbed.  “Abe hit me.”

I
glanced over at Rachel.  She gave me a smile and an eye roll.

I
pulled Ramona into my lap.  “He didn’t hit you, honey.  I’ve been watching you
the whole time.”

“He
did.  He pushed me and called me a brat.”

Abe
had turned fifteen months the week before.  Besides “cookie” and “no!,” his
vocabulary was exceptionally limited.  “Ramona,” I pleaded, “he was trying to
play with you.  He loves you.”

“I
know, but he’s being mean.”

“He’s
not,” I said, kissing her rounded cheek. 

She
leaned into me, pressing her soft body into my shoulder.  “Can we go home?”

“Soon,
baby.  Why don’t you go play with some of the other girls?”

She
sighed, pushing the hair from her face.  It was the same light cinnamon color
as her mother’s, her eyes a soft brown, like mine.  “Those girls are mean too. 
Do we get to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house now?”

“In
a few hours,” I smiled at her, giving her a squeeze.

“And
swim in the pool?”

“Probably. 
You promise me that you will be nice to your brother?  Otherwise, no pool.”

“Okay,”
she huffed, burying her head in my neck.

Rachel
turned to me, carrying Abe in her arms, her round belly prominent. 
Less
than two months to go before our second daughter arrived.

“Babe,
they’re tired.  Let’s go,” she smiled softly.  “I’m exhausted too.”

“What
time is Walter picking them up?” 
I couldn’t wait for some time alone with
her…

“Five,
I think.”

I
gathered the bags, taking my son from her arms.  “I’ve got him,” I told her,
leaning in and pressing my lips to hers.  I would
never
tire of kissing
her. 

She
tasted like strawberries… always.

About the Author

Nicole Hildreth lives and works in
Indianapolis, IN, where she spends her time supporting local art and music. 
Which you should do, too.  Seriously.