The Art of Adapting Read Free Page A

twenty-four-year-old self reemerging temporarily. The bright-eyed girl of hope and promise, the one who didn’t take life so seriously, who loved sex and kissing and hand-holding but didn’t need a man in her life full-time. It was time to dust off that version of herself.
    â€œThere are three more stop signs on this road,” Matt said. “You should do a five-second stop. That way there’s no mistaking that you stopped. I always stop for five seconds. I can count if you don’t know how long that is. Most people don’t know how long a second is. Not really. Not exactly.”
    Lana drove toward her children, Nick Parker’s information in her hand, and Valentine’s Day laid out before her, ripe for the picking. “You do that,” she said. “You count for me.”
    She was on such a high that even the sight of Graham, freshly showered and well dressed, smiling, relaxed, and happy to be free of her, did nothing to rattle her. She embraced her children as if they’d been gone more than just sixteen hours. She wondered briefly if she should be concerned that her mood that day had swung so quickly from insomnia and tears to ecstatic, effusive joy.
    â€œHappy Valentine’s Day, my loves!” she sang, kissing both kids, knowing how her gushing affection embarrassed them. Abby rolled her eyes and Byron shrugged her off.
    â€œOh, right. Happy Valentine’s Day,” Graham said. Lana gave him a smirk and turned away. As if there were any chance she’d been talking to him. She floated down the steps toward her car, still holding Nick’s note.

2
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Matt
    Matt waited in the car when Lana went up Graham’s steps to get the kids. His heart was beating too fast and his ears were still buzzing. He didn’t feel like rocking anymore, but he didn’t feel like walking up two flights of stairs, either. He’d thought it would be a nice change, getting out of the house, going for a ride, but it had been a mistake. The police officer, even though he turned out to be Nick Parker, just Lana’s ex-boyfriend and not the bullish police officer who’d yelled at Matt for drinking, had still managed to upset Matt. And Matt’s breakfast was ruined, dropped on the floor of the car. And he was hungry.
    The kids came toward the car, backpacks on and carrying armloads of clothes and books as if they weren’t wearing backpacks that the clothes and books could go into. They were talking too much, too fast. Lana held up her hands as she smiled at Matt, made a show of covering her ears. He nodded, covered his ears, and waited. He closed his eyes while he was at it. He felt the car doors open by the suction then barrier-breaking feeling, pressure building then snapping, followed by a gust of fresh air. Then he felt the kids’ voices more than heard them. Abby chirping like an excited bird, the high-pitched energy raising the hair on Matt’s arms. Byron’s voice was a deep grumble, the vibration carrying throughMatt’s seat and into his spine. Matt kept his ears covered until they got home. Waited until Lana and the kids were inside the house before he uncovered his ears and rubbed them. They were itchy and sweaty. He sat for a moment in the silence of the car, shut safely in the garage. It was a perfect bubble of calm and quiet. But only for a moment, before Lana remembered Matt’s spilled breakfast and came back to clean it up. She was always cleaning something up. But she was smiling, happy now, and didn’t even scold Matt for the butter on the floor mat. At least his milk cup had been in the cup holder so he hadn’t spilled that.
    Matt headed for the comfort of his room, the only place in the whole house that was just his. He was learning to like his new room. His bed was firm and the cornflower-blue sheets were soft stretchy cotton. T-shirt sheets, they were called. But they were even softer than Matt’s T-shirts. The room was