Page 18 of The Best Bad Decision

I hand him her favourite bedtime book—I’ve been holding it since tucking Maisy into bed, but now Maisy has made her request, it’s time to pass the torch. He starts to settle on the floor before Maisy encourages him to join her on the bed. He gives in easily, laying alongside her and tucking her tiny body against his large frame as he opens the book to read.

I slip out halfway through the dinosaur adventure, pressing myself against the wall outside Maisy’s open bedroom door where I can hear, but not watch. My pulse is racing, warmth filling my belly and heat pooling between my thighs. I don’t want this. I can’t let myself want this. I can’t have him—however much the memory of that night haunts my every dream, however much my body aches for him. He’s here for Maisy. He’s not here for me.

eleven

Cam

Amie’s had this strangeenergy all day. It’s had her on edge, restless and agitated, and it’s had Maisy acting out, too. She’s been stubborn and moody, eventually succumbing to a blowout tantrum and tears in the afternoon, followed by a long nap in my arms.

Holding my little girl while she sleeps might be my new favourite thing. It feels like such a privilege, something I don’t ever want to take for granted. Being able to kiss away the furrow in her brow as she sleeps, matching my breathing to hers—it’s everything I never knew I wanted.

But Amie’s still full of anxious tension, and as I scrub the remnants of Maisy’s macaroni and cheese from her pink plastic bowl, I spot her leaving the kitchen and reappearing a few minutes later, dressed in forest green gym leggings and matching long sleeves. She tugs a charcoal vest over her shoulders and zips it up her torso.

“Do you mind if I go for a run?” Her eyes dart around the room nervously. I set the cutlery on the side of the sink.

“Is it safe?”

“I’m a big girl, Cam,” she insists, pulling her curls into a ponytail. “I can handle myself.”

“That’s not what I said,” I answer evenly. It’s dark outside, and London is a big city—one I don’t know awfully well. I don’t know how safe it is for a woman to run alone in the dark.

“It’s safe enough,” she says eventually. “I wear lights. I carry pepper spray. I won’t be long.”

“Okay,” I relent. “Keep your phone on loud. Call me if you need anything—anything,Amie.”

I’ve seen firsthand today how headstrong she can be, and exactly where Maisy gets it from. I’m not blind or foolish to believe that none of her stubbornness comes from me, but today’s obstinance and tantrums looked exactly like the barely-contained irritation flashing in Amie’s eyes.

“I will,” she promises, pulling a headlamp and several clip lights from a kitchen drawer. She attaches them to her body before tucking a small cylinder into the slim pouch around her waist. After tying her shoes and kissing Maisy’s curls, she leaves with a softclickof the front door. Maisy and I are alone for the first time.

“Hey, Maisy Girl,” I call as I move from the kitchen to the living room. My daughter is building some kind of structure with wooden blocks, surrounding her dinosaur figurines with towers.

“Hi Daddy,” she says with a sigh. “Ice cream?”

Her eyes are hopeful, glancing from me to the kitchen to the door, like she’s anxiously awaiting Amie’s return.

“Sure, sweetheart, we can have ice cream.” I lift her into my arms. She wraps her little legs around my hip and clings to me, her head resting on my shoulder as she rubs at her eyes tiredly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I plop a small spoonful of strawberry ice cream into a plastic bowl with a green dinosaur on the base, and sprinkle it with the golden sprinkles I unearth from a cupboard.

Maisy tucks in eagerly, quickly making a mess with ice cream around her mouth. She’s so cute—the sight reminds me of one of the first photographs Amie showed me, and I pull out my phone to snap another picture. I send it to Amie and tuck my phone away, swiping the now-empty bowl and filling it with water in the sink.

“C’mon, Maisy Girl.” I hold out a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in pyjamas before Mommy gets home.”

Maisy pouts, but she takes my hand and lets me lead her upstairs. I run a bath, adding a small splash of sugary-sweet bubble liquid and carefully testing the temperature with my elbow the way I watched Amie do it. Mindful not to overfill the tub, I turn the faucet off before helping Maisy out of her clothes and into the water. She’s still a little subdued, and the downturn of her lips is making my stomach clench uncomfortably.

I just want her to be happy. Logically, I know she can’t be happy one hundred percent of the time—no one is. But right now, something is getting to her, and I don’t know what it is or how to fix it, and my heart twists in my chest. I’m her dad. I should know how to fix it. Ineedto know how to fix it. I dip a pink washcloth into the warm water and carefully wipe the ice cream moustache from Maisy’s lips, and then select a blue dinosaur from a box of bath toys.

“Who’s this?” I ask. Maisy snatches him from my hand.

“Hemydinosaur,” she insists, frowning stubbornly. Okay, then.

Barely a moment later, the door clicks, and I hear Amie shuffling through the house before she appears in the bathroom doorway, untying her hair.

“Ice cream?” The storm in her hazel eyes is more ice than fire, and she mutters something under her breath. Maisy splashes the dinosaur hard into the water, drenching me from head to toe, and I sigh. That sounded remarkably like Amie’s mom-voice, and I don’t like hearing her use it on me. I get the feeling that I’ve just bulldozed straight through several boundaries—ones that weren’t made to be breached.

“C’mon, Maisy Girl, let’s get ready for bed.”

“No,” she refuses. “Stay here.”

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