Page 53 of The Best Bad Decision

With clean hands and a freshly wiped-down kitchen counter, Maisy stands in her kitchen tower—a stool with rails around the top step to allow her to safely stand at the counter without risk of falling. I’ve put her in charge of peeling pepperoni slices from the packaging and laying them out on a plate while I dig pizza bases and sauce from the cupboards.

“What are you going to put on your pizza, Mouse?”

“I gonna put cheese! And—um—pepp-oni!”

“Cheese and pepperoni? That soundsdelicious!”

“Yeah! ‘Licious!”

I hand her a spoon to smear sauce over her small pizza base, and within minutes, there’s tomato sauce down her dress and in her hair. I smile, shaking my head to myself as I sprinkle handfuls of cheese over my own pizza base.

“Time for cheese rain, Maisy!”

She grabs two tiny fistfuls of grated cheese, holds her hands in the air above the counter and releases the shreds, letting them fall onto her plate. More cheese lands on the floor than on her pizza, and as she turns to grin at me, I clear up a little cheese from the countertop and add some more to her pizza base.

“I gonna do a face, Mama,” she declares, twisting to reach for the pepperoni slices. “I gonna do Daddy’s face!”

“Daddy’s face, huh? You’re gonna eat Daddy’s face on your pizza?”

“Yeah! You send Daddy a picture?”

“Of course, honey. Let’s make his eyes.”

I cut two tiny circles of green bell pepper for Maisy’s pizza, knowing full well that she’ll eat around them. We create a nose out of a slice of mushroom—which she’ll also refuse to eat—and a big smile with pepperoni slices cut in half.

“Is Daddy! Look, Mama!” I grab my phone and step back, letting Maisy grin at the camera next to her pizza creation.

“Okay, little lady. Let’s get these in the oven, and get you cleaned up. You’re a mucky pup.”

“I a DINOSAUR!” Maisy shrieks with laughter, wriggling and hopping impatiently from foot to foot as I carefully wipe sauce from her dress and face with a damp towel. I unlock the barrier to her kitchen tower and she jumps off the bottom step, snatching Roger from a kitchen chair and racing into the living room with him. I leave her toplay while I clean the pizza mess. By the time I’m done, there are only a few more minutes on the oven timer, and three messages on my phone waiting for me.

Cam

I love that kid.

I make a pretty handsome pizza, don’t you think?

Give her a kiss for me. Call u soon for bedtime.

twenty-nine

Cam

Two nights later, inanother plain white hotel room in Los Angeles, I connect to a conference call with Amie, who is in Charlotte, and her mom, who is tucking Maisy into bed with Roger and Daddy Bear.

Suzanne and Maisy regale us with stories of their morning at the swimming pool, and my new book is a hit—so much so, Maisy is asleep and snoring softly before the story is even over. Suzanne bids us goodnight and leaves the call. And then it’s just me and Amie.

I take in the background of Amie’s image on my phone screen as I stretch out on the bed, one arm behind my head. The wall behind her is stark white, broken up only by the large wooden headboard stretching from the mattress to the ceiling. The bed sheets she sits on are as white as the walls. It looks clinical, sterile, anonymous—just like the room I’m in now. We could be on either side of the same wall, but she’s a couple thousand miles away, on the opposite coast.

“You okay, Amie?” I find myself asking. “You just seem… quiet. Tired. Not yourself.”

She sighs, and her shoulders fall.

“I’m just tired,” she says, straightening her posture again and forcing her lips into a tight smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I miss Maisy andthese blank white rooms are driving me crazy. But I’m okay. Really. Hey, I’m just gonna change quickly and then I’m all yours.” She stands and crosses the room to where I can see her open suitcase on a luggage rack.

She’s turned away from the camera, almost completely out of frame in the corner of my screen when she lifts her sweater over her head. My cock twitches in my pants, awake and interested.

As she undresses, I’m faced with her bare back, the delicate solar system tattoo down the line of her spine, the gentle ripple of her shoulder blades as she moves, the soft, golden skin with the faintest tan line from the string of her bikini. She’s not wearing a bra.

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