Page 57 of The Snowflake Effect

I rub my thumb over her smooth skin until she pulls back, but her leg stays pressed to mine, her cheeks and neck a soft pink.

I lean over Jackson, who’s scrunching his face. “What do you say, bud? I’ve seen Shay’s writing, and it’s pretty neat. We could give her a different color to use.” I should make him write it all, but after a year, it’s hard to let go of the tradition—my measured writing next to his looping letters, each word gradually getting neater.

Straighter.

Older.

More scrunching, more ums, until he says, “’Kay. But we’ll have to find the green for you. It’s not in the pack.” He shakes the incomplete set of pencils.

Shay drags the bag toward her and practically sticks her head inside. She emerges with the lost green pencil…and the book I thought Stella tossed.

“The Urban Dictionary?” She cocks her head at Jackson. “Is this yours, too?”

His eyes get as wide as his glasses. “Yeah. Aunt Stella said I could keep it but Daddy’s not s’posed to know, so we should put it back before he gets mad.”

She, of course, doesn’t. She flips through the book and lands on a dog-eared page. “Banana polish,” she says slowly, her left eye squinting like it does when she’s puzzling something out.

That’s when Jackson shouts, “Noooo polish!” his fist in the air.

Not only does the shushing get emphatic, but we invite the wrath of the librarian. I’ve been to this library a few times. The front desk is always staffed by an older lady who looks like she hasn’t seen sunlight in years.

Today, however, a different woman is working.

With her pencil skirt, high heels, and low-cut blouse, the woman approaching the table could star in every teen boy’s naughty-librarian fantasy. Her sleek black hair is in a bun, her arms crossed defiantly over her ample chest. “There are people working in here. You need to respect the silence and speak in hushed voices, or I’ll have to ask you to leave. Understood?”

Shay’s eyes dip up and down the woman’s body. She blinks a few times, then moves her leg away from mine under the table, her warmth from moments ago spiraling into hostility. As if she’s jealous. As if she thinks this woman is why I come here.

Focusing on the issue at hand, I reassure the librarian we won’t cause any trouble.

When she leaves, Shay leans toward Jackson. “You guys come here often?” When Jackson nods with a quick yes, she glances back at the retreating woman and huffs. “Guess your dad wasn’t joking about the pottery. He must enjoy the view in here.”

“The view’s great,” I say, liking her jealousy a little too much. “Best it’s ever been.” I reach under the table and grab her knee, inching my fingers up her bare thigh. Her head jerks my way, her breasts rising on a shaky inhale. I stop at the hem of her short shorts. “This view’s better than the mountains in Aspen and Kitsilano Beach at sunset. It’s the view I’ve fallen asleep imagining every night for three months. The pottery was for you, Shay, and no one else. And I look forward to your real answer tonight.”

I didn’t mean to sound so intense, but no part of me seems to care.

Jackson fidgets in his seat while pens scratch and whispers drift and feet plod along the worn carpet. Shay moves her leg back to mine and is about to speak when Jackson says, “Can we start?”

I press my leg to hers, harder, but turn to Jackson. “Sure, bud.”

Tonight can’t come soon enough.

An hour later, we’ve added four words to Jackson’s journal, with Shay writing out the first two and me the next two. As I finish the definition for gaffer—the person on a movie set who’s in charge of lights—her throaty chuckle floats across the table.

“Daddy.” Jackson tugs on the side of my shirt. “Can we please add some words from the Urban one? Pleeeeease.”

I glance up. Shay is flipping through that damn book, a look of pure delight on her face.

Why does everyone want to corrupt my son?

“No, Jackson. That book isn’t appropriate,” I tell him.

When Shay looks up, I narrow my eyes and mouth, Thanks.

She pouts, pushing out her bottom lip. The one I’d kill to take between my teeth. “Come on, Dad, please,” she says, turning the book toward me. “This is an awesome word.”

Jackson is practically on the table, his head pushing against my cheek as he reads along with me. “Glomp?” he says. “Glomp! Oh, we hafta, Daddy. It’s perfect. I need it in my journal so bad.”

Warring with my instincts to shove this asking-for-trouble book on a random shelf never to be heard from again, I sigh. Saying no to Jackson is never easy. Plus, it is an awesome word. “Okay, fine. Read it aloud then tell me how you want it written down.”