Boot(s)

6- Boot

Bobby O'Callahan

"Can I have ice cream for dinner? Actually, scratch that. I want one of your famous cheeseburgers. And then I want ice cream."

She turned from her spot in the front seat, making sure I could see her batting her eyelashes before she clasped both her hands together. "Pretty please, Bo?"

I exhaled deeply. This girl was my kryptonite. Of course she could have ice cream and one of my famous cheeseburgers. I'd give her anything if she asked. "Just this once, Bel. And no telling momma I've got you off her vegan crap, okay?"

Her ten-year-old fists pumped the air in victory. "YES!" I chuckled, letting one hand drift out the window of my truck. She turned to me, giving me her best sickly sweet smile that was so chillingly similar to her mother's, "I promise mom won't be any the wiser." She was little Jessie, through and through.

Shaking my head at the thought, I pulled into the driveway of The Lee's single-story ranch. Jess and her husband had chosen this one because it was so close to school. Bella could walk if Jessie was stuck at work. It gave Brandon piece of mind as he was so far away from his family during his naval deployment. He was usually only gone for sixth months or so, but this time around it was nine. When Bella turned six, her dad took a more senior position, which came with better money and benefits, but he was also away more frequently. Brandon took the job around the same time I was moving back home, so it just so happened to work out that I was able to assume the role of part-time nanny and full-time godfather to Bella.

It was a dream, really. She was still at the age where hanging out with me was fun and cool. She wasn't yet shutting herself up in her room for hours talking to boys or writing in a diary or whatever. I was Bo, her mom's best friend who took her fishing, let her walk my chocolate lab, and picked her up from school twice a week to cook her dinner and help with homework.

But today, homework wasn't getting done. She had more energy than usual and was talking a mile a minute at the kitchen table as she drew me—standing at the counter chopping onions and tomatoes—instead of doing the multiplication like I had asked her to do three separate times.

"And Angela, God Bo, it's like she's the cat's meow, or whatever. She thinks Tommy Johnson likes her because he lent her his Harry Potter copy, but honestly, the kid's a crapload of crap. He lent me that copy two weeks ago! Such a player. And Angela still thinks she's the cat's meow!"

I stopped chopping to turn and raise an eyebrow at her.

"Hey!" She wagged her pencil at me. "I thought I told you not to move while I drew!"

"And I thought I told you that we're supposed to be kind to every living creature, even the Angela's who think they're the cat's meow."

She huffed at me, focusing back on her pencil drawing. "What do you know," she muttered. "You're only thirty. You've got years left to find your Angelas. And you won't be kind to them then!"

"You're a piece of work," I told her. "And you've forgotten my last birthday."

"Thirty-one," she grumbled. "Like it makes a difference."

"Multiplication," I pointed my chopping knife at her. "Now, Bella. I want to see that backpack open by the time I pull these burgers off the grill."

She didn't offer a response except for an eye roll, but by the time I had pulled the burgers—two meat, one veggie—off the grill, she had given up her reign of tyranny and was calculating her math, her tongue stuck out between her teeth.