Page 2 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
“Daddy’s coming to get me?” She sits straight up in bed, her sandy—not quite brown, not quite blonde—hair sticking up wildly. I’m surprised a couple of birds haven’t set up nest there. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I roll my eyes, throwing my hands in the air in exasperation. I carried the child for nine months, cooking her chunky butt, only to birth her and her dad be her favorite person. It figures. Not that I begrudge that. Her dad really is great with her.
She hops out of bed, running across the hall to the bathroom.
The toilet flushes a minute later, and I yell, “Wash your hands!”
In the kitchen, I pull out everything I need for her scrambled eggs and toast. Since I’ve been fighting to get her to wake up and get ready I have yet to change out of my pajamas, shower, or even brush my own teeth. I didn’t have to go into work until ten, but after a call this morning I’m now supposed to be there in an hour.
“Brush your teeth,” I remind her when I spot the blur of her form running back to her bedroom.
“I did!”
“You and I both know you didn’t. Back in there, young lady.”
Monroe groans dramatically but crosses back into the bathroom. She’s a spitfire, and I love that about her, but some days it’s exhausting.
Before I can get the eggs on the stove there’s a knock on the door and my body tenses automatically.
Even though we’ve been co-parenting for the biggest part of our daughter’s life, I still feel a bit awkward being around him.
Putting the fork in my hand down I walk the three feet to the apartment door and open it for him.
“Spencer,” I greet. “Good morning.”
His blue eyes are bright, not a trace of dark circles or any hint of a bad night’s sleep. Unlike me. He’s probably been up forhours already, working out and doing whatever the hell else it is he does. Look in the mirror and tell himself how gorgeous he is, probably.
“Morning, Harlow.” He holds out an iced coffee. “You look like you could use this.”
“Thank you.” I take it from him gratefully. “Your daughter is being a terror this morning.”
“My daughter.” He cracks a tiny grin. “Funny, I’m pretty sure she gets that part of her personality from her mother.”
I roll my eyes and playfully slap his side.
Spencer and I get along well, and have what I would consider a friendship, but there’s always been this undercurrent of something else that makes me feel tense. Not in a bad way, Spencer is a genuinely good guy so it’s not like I’m uncomfortable, but there’s this edge to our relationship that I feel like I have to tip-toe around. I’ve often wondered if he feels it too, but I haven’t wanted to ask.
“How was your drive?” Small talk is the best route this morning as I resume Monroe’s breakfast.
“Nice. I listened to an audiobook.” He stands with his hands in his designer jeans, looking around my apartment like he’s never been here before. Which he has, often. The scruff on his jaw is thicker than normal and he reaches up, scratching it. “Why do you live here, Harlow? I could get you a better place.”
I stiffen, moving the eggs around the skillet with a spatula. This isn’t the first time he’s said this, and each time it grates on my nerves. I know he doesn’t mean it to be condescending, and is oblivious to how this comment makes me feel—like he thinks I can’t provide for our daughter—but that doesn’t make it okay to continuously say to me. The two-bedroom apartment with a loft is a few blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. Yeah, it could use some TLC but it’s not a dump and I think I’ve made it into a home.
But I guess compared to Spencer’s palatial beach house in Malibu this is nothing.
“I like it here,” I bite out, transferring the eggs to a plate. “And I don’t need, nor do I want, your help buying me a place. I’m a big girl, Spence.”
He winces. Normally nicknames are a sign of playfulness, but we both know I only call him Spence when he’s grating on my nerves.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” I keep my back to him, buttering the toast. “But you have to stop it. Take this to Roe.” I thrust the plate at him.
Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t barreled out here already to greet him.
He looks down at the plate with a tiny smile. “Eggs, huh?”
“Monroe likes them,” I whisper, trying to fight the memories threatening to pull me back in time. Of course, he knows our daughter likes eggs, but he also knows I hate cooking them. They’re so slimy and it makes me gag every time I have to crack an egg. I can eat them just fine, it’s just the actual raw egg that gives me the ick.
