Page 35 of Peaches & Pistols

I need a break from helping Mrs. Wilkerson find a screw based on the rusted, ancient one she brought from home that fell out of god knows what. I flip the door sign to “Closed For Lunch” and head upstairs.

The second I walk through the apartment door, something distinctly Mia envelops my senses. Is it perfume, or her shampoo? I don’t know but it’s intoxicating.

As much as I pretend to look around the living room, my eyes are pulled to the scrap of paper on the counter.

I started leaving her notes as a way to communicate without startling her, and because my tongue ties in knots around her. I turn into a bumbling fool, and unfortunately, my gut reaction to embarrassment is to be an asshole.

She doesn’t deserve that, so, notes were my solution. She’s asked me more than once why I don’t just text her, and I never have a good answer for her.

Truth being, it’s too…instantaneous. If I texted her, I’d be waiting for her to read it and respond, and then I’d want to respond. It’s too intimate.

What I didn’t expect was for her to write me back. I feel like I’m passing notes with the pretty girl in homeroom.

My mind flips like a catalog through her previous notes.

Tonight, ask Harper to tell you the joke she learned at school. She’s so proud.

I’ll be at the ranch during the

school day. Text me if

you need me.

Harper missed you this morning. She wanted me to tell you she loves you.

Can you leave some cash?

Harper has the book fair

tomorrow after school.

Thank you for filling my car with gas. I could’ve done it, but I appreciate it.

Maybe she’s more comfortable communicating through notes too. Except she communicates just fine the rest of the time. I’m the inept idiot.

Despite how starving I am, I can pretend the refrigerator’s the source of all my problems. I know what I’m going to find when I open the door.

Air fryer 375° for 5-7 min

Every day I’m at work or out of the house, she makes lunch for me and leaves it in the fridge. Sometimes it’s a simple sandwich. Most days it’s leftovers of her brilliant cooking. Today, it’s two giant slices of her homemade supreme pizza, and from her past instructions, I know it’ll come out of the air fryer perfectly melted and crispy.

I pop the pizza in, precisely following her directions. She impresses me more as the weeks have passed. The last time she made supreme pizza, I ate it happily, but she must’ve noticed I picked off the mushrooms, because she’s never put them in any dish since.

Harper will eat the supreme, but she prefers pepperoni only. So, Mia makes her a perfectly-sized pepperoni pizza, and a slightly smaller cheese-only pizza for Everly.

The part that bothers me is that she won’t eat until everyone else has tucked into their meal, and she always eats what’s left on the table. She never makes her favorites or even a plate for herself.

I hired Mia out of desperation, in need of a nanny. I ended up employing a full-time nanny, housecleaner, chef, and personal assistant.

There’s no question I don’t pay her enough for everything she does around here, but she insists these are all things she’d be doing if she and Everly lived on their own. Why not be helpful? Is what she says.

My lunch is ready, and I eat it right off the cooking tray over the sink. I’m not a messy person by nature, but I’ve never kept my home tidier than with Mia here. I want to make her life easier. I do my damndest to keep Harper’s room picked up, not make a mess in the kitchen or bathrooms, and toss in a load of laundry when I notice the basket is getting full. I don’t mind.

Though if I’d admit it to myself, I’ve been taking care of myself and other people since Dad died—and it feels good to be the one taken care of. Her attention and kindness are addicting; to know I’m important enough for her to think of my likes and anticipate my needs.

Something down the hall catches my eye. Mia’s door isn’t typically open…

I don’t care what’s in her room. Why would I care about that?