Bucket had this neat new trick. Maybe it was being too kind to call it a trick, given that neither he nor Marley had taught it to him. He wasn't sure where he'd picked it up (maybe Scoob?) but either way, he'd taken to weaving in and out of Harlow's legs whenever he moved about the kitchen. Always when Harlow was plodding around with a cup of coffee in hand, or about to leave the house, he'd start up prancing around like a prize show pony or one of those extra-smart dogs on America's Got Talent. Like he could just slow the old man down by being extra cute.
Harlow let out a guffaw of laughter, stepping real careful over Bucket so as not to trip up over his cowboy boots. He'd shined 'em up real nice, his old, beat up Tecovas relegated to the back of his closet for the night. Only the best for Marley's big night. It had been circled on the calendar for weeks, and Harlow had been running his mouth about it for just as long. It was hard to tell if Marley had been pleased or just plain embarrassed when he'd told the customer ordering the no-foam, oat milk skinny latte about her tight five that night, grinning from ear to ear as the tips of Marley's own ears turned pink.
They'd parted ways earlier in the day, Marley reassured in the knowledge Simon was coming in to work the late Harlow usually was rota'd on for that week. Nothing was gonna get in his way. He was gonna be front row, whooping and hollering and laughing louder than anybody else in the place. Not just to be supportive, but because his girl was damn funny.
That was, until he stepped foot into his living room and was scared near to death by the sight of a five foot somethin' blonde standing there in bright pink cowboy boots.
She had always had a flair for dramatics, his little girl. He had no idea where on earth Rosie Charlton had picked it up, given he and her Mama were farm people, real salt of the earth types. He'd seen Rosie with her hand up a cow's hoo-hah when said cow was calving with a serious, no-funny-business look on her face. Yet now she was standing there looking like some kind of cartoon villain, a set of fluffy looking pink keys dangling from her index finger.
'Cause of course, she had her own set of keys.
"You scared the heck out of me, Ro." he chuckled, hand clasped over his heart. He took a few tentative steps forward, slinging an arm around her neck to pull her in for a bear hug. Her tiny body stiffened in his embrace, arms still held in the same position as before, so her keys dug mercilessly into his arm.
He tried giving her a small smile, chucking under her chin ever so slightly in the way she loved when she was a kid. To look at her sometimes was to be reminded of Dolly. When she and the girls had been running around the farm as kids, it was easy to think there were McCabe triplets rather than just twins. Only, Dolly was always smiling, even when she was at her saddest. Harlow hated to say it about his own flesh and blood - but Rosie had a meanness to her that Dolly just didn't possess, and it made 'em seem like polar opposites.
"You goin' somewhere, Daddy?" she asked, lips turned downward into a pout. He watched as her eyes slid downwards, to his boots, and to Bucket peering out from behind his legs.
He nodded gently, bending his knees to scratch Bucket behind those big, silly ears of his. Reassuring him. Rosie wasn't a stranger, Bucket just didn't know her yet.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact." he said, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his lips. "Marley's got a gig tonight. A gig? A show? I dunno. She's doin'-"
The smile slid clean of his face at the sight of Rosie, whose entire face had turned stony at the mere mention of Marley's name.
It had taken forty minutes to steer Rosie from absolutely hysterical to just plain mad.
Bucket scurrying into the other room should've been a sure fire sign Marley was home, but Harlow failed to hear the tell-tale squeak of the front door because Rosie was making such a ruckus. She'd stomped up and down his hardwood floor in those boots, mascara-colored tears tracking down her face as her voice climbed higher, impossibly higher. The soothing, soft pleas of "let me call your Mama, you wanna talk to your Mama?" had been met with furthur plaintive wails, the snatching of his phone, and a high pitched cry when she saw Harlow's phone background, a slightly blurry photo of Marley and Bucket running through Central Park.
"You've. Totally. Replaced. Me." she hissed, the words harsh and cutting right through him. One hand clasped his phone, her manicured grip tight, the other thrusting around Marley's abandoned jumper. "She. Lives. Here."
"Ro, Rosie. Come on, pumpkin." he cooed, holding up two hands. The couch stood between them like a barrier, and Harlow found himself kneeling on the couch cushions, tugging Rosie towards him, the back of the couch jutting uncomfortably into his stomach as he wrestled with her wriggling, reluctant form. He missed when she was going through the terrible twos and placated with being hoisted up onto his shoulders. He didn't know what to do with a tearful girl in her twenties who felt shoved out.
"You're still my baby." he tried to soothe her, rubbing her back. "You're my little girl. I love you so much, baby girl."
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