Page 18 of Everything We Give

She frowns at me. “You almost said a naughty word.”

I press a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell Mommy.”

She mimics me with her finger. “Promise.”

We hook pinkies in our “secret keeper” handshake. She gives me a look, a slight curve to her mouth, her eyes bright and photo-paper glossy, that strikes me with the force of a SpaceX rocket. It ripples through me like a shock wave. I’d seen that look in my mom a time or two, back when I thought I meant something to her.

“I missed you, Daddy,” she whispers like it’s a big secret.

“I—” I clear the toad from my throat. “I missed you, too.”

Caty slips from my lap and skips to the door. She yawns, arms stretching overhead. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re supposed to yawn when you’re hungry? I thought that meant you’re tired.”

“Noooo, silly.” She laughs.

I wink at her. “Let’s eat lunch.” I rise stiffly from my chair. I haven’t moved for several hours. “Then it’s naptime.”

“Can we play princess first? Please?” She clasps her hands together and bats her lashes.

“Sure thing, Caty-cakes. But this time I get to play Rapunzel.”

“Deal.” She cheers and runs from the room.

I smile to myself, shaking my head, and follow her out. I don’t wear a wig and tutu for anyone but her.

In the kitchen, I find Catherine unpacking Caty’s backpack. We chat a bit about Caty’s day at preschool until Catherine announces she has to leave for a hair appointment.

I walk her to the door. “Do you mind giving Caty and me a lift to the café when you’re done? Aimee took my car this morning. We left hers at Nadia’s.” The least I can do is help Aimee close this afternoon, but right now Caty needs a nap. On cue, she rubs her eyes. Aimee and I aren’t the only ones who stayed up late. Someone let Caty stay up past her bedtime and all eyes are on Grandma.

Catherine glances at her watch, a silver number on her thin wrist. “I should be done around two thirty.”

Two hours from now, plenty of time for us to eat and Caty to sleep. “That works. Thanks.”

Catherine leaves and I make PB&J sandwiches, after which we play princess. Dressed in a light-blue tutu over faded jeans and a long blonde wig that’s more knotted than straight, I announce from atop the coffee table to Caty, who’s kneeling on the floor, that I’ll not let down my hair. Just then, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” I say in my princess voice. I leap off the table and float to the foyer. “Hello,” I sing, opening the front door. The greeting dies in my throat.

On the porch stands James. At the sight of me, his mouth falls open. Then he grins, albeit hesitantly, like he’s fighting not to. He tries to hide his face with a quick glance away.

“You.” I should have known James would make an appearance, like at the café, or Wendy’s gallery. Not here, at my house, while I’m playing pretend with my daughter. But then James is a Donato. One should expect the unexpected from them.

James holds up a hand. “Sorry, it’s just ...” He slowly shakes his head. “Of all the scenarios I pictured, I didn’t see this. You caught me off guard.”

I caught him off guard?

Seriously?

“Nice outfit,” he remarks.

I scowl. His grin dissolves.

The guy’s got nerve knocking on my door.

I would have preferred neutral territory, such as a boxing ring at the gym. I would have made a more positive, lasting impression. Preferably one in the shape of my fist rather than the memory James will have of me wearing a tutu.

James extends his hand. “I’m Ja—”

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