“That’s enough, Oliver,” I bark. “I’m doing my job. You do yours. And remember I’m paying you really well to do it.”
Instant regret. I hate that I just said that. Oliver is my friend and he means well, and reminding him that I provide his paycheck makes me feel like a grade A rump roast. I march into my suite cursing myself and my manager under my breath. I’ll have to call himlater to apologize, after I’ve eaten something. I can tell I’m not myself.
When I push through the door, I’m greeted by a soft, slow Harry Styles song filtering from somewhere in the back of the suite. I stand in the dark entry taking deep breaths and willing my annoyance away before I slip off my shoes and wander toward the kitchen. The music is helping.
“Ladies?” I call out gently—I’ve learned Sunny doesn’t appreciate it when I sneak up on her—but no one responds except a crooning Harry Styles.
I turn the corner to the kitchen and find Sunny, her back turned to me, rocking Imogen, whose head is slumped on her shoulder. All forty-three pounds of her look like dead weight in Sunny’s arms. Her mouth is drooping open, with her twiggy legs loosely wrapped around Sunny’s waist. Sunny steps softly from side to side, humming the song close to Immy’s ear, her voice a half note off-key
Screw Oliver. Screw Christopher Marchant. And screw Indiana Jones.
I would stand in front of a train for these two.
I lean against the door jamb, cross my arms, and observe in silence. Sunny’s hair is down today—straight, shiny, and longer than I thought. She’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and a pair of jeans I’ve seen before. They’re the ones that make her hips look extra squeezable. I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s something stuck to Sunny’s butt.
I’m trying—mostly trying—not to let my eyes linger on her back side. In my defense, I have to figure out what’s stuck there. Anyone would. It’s the friendly thing to do. The light is dim in here, but I squint and see that it’s an oblong, white sticker printed with the word “Snack.” It’s adhered perfectly to the right side of her bottom like a label.
Well, that’s appropriate.
I bite my cheek to hold in my laugh as my Snack rocks side to side, humming along with the slow song, while my daughter’s feet dangle around her sides.
Not moving toward her is testing every last shred of my willpower. Then Sunny’s humming turns to whisper-soft singing, and she leans her head on Immy’s. How can I be expected to just stand here? I can’t. I step toward the girls, wrapping my arms around both of them.
Sunny gasps lightly. “You’re home,” she whispers. Her smile is like an unfiltered ray of sunlight in this dark room.
My daughter’s tiny body curls between us as we sway in time with Sunny. If Oliver asks, this isn't dancing. We’re rocking Immy to sleep. Totally innocent. I run my thumb over her waist and nod. I can’t say anything. Who knows what will come out of my mouth? Her lashes flutter closed and she sighs.
“We did a few fast songs. We slowed things down a little and she crashed,” she whispers with her eyes closed, swaying to the music. She won’t look up at me. “We should put her to bed.” She pulls away.
“Yeah.” I follow her into Imogen’s bedroom, folding the blankets and sheets down so Sunny can lay Immy in her bed.
We tuck the blankets into Immy’s sides, standing way too close to each other for this one-person job. Something is off in Sunny’s eyes—maybe longing or sadness—when she smoothes the blankets around my daughter.
I follow Sunny out of the room and close the door softly behind us. She walks straight to the foyer and slides her feet into her sandals. My heart sinks.
“Where are you going?”Yes, desperation. That’s what women love, Anders.
“Home?” she says the word like a question.
Instead of an angel and a devil on my shoulder, there are a dozen voices in my head—Oliver, Christopher, Imogen, and even mymother. Everyone wants something different. Everyone is telling me what to do. I shake my head to clear it.
“Don’t go,” I say on an exhale. I’m begging her and I don’t care.
She sighs. “Oliver came over today.” Her tone is resigned.
She doesn’t need to tell me what he said, I only need to know how he said it. “Was he civil?” He better have been good to her, or I’ll be inventing a hundred ways to skewer him.
“Of course he was. Polite. Straightforward.” She frowns. “He reminded me what’s on the line for you, and for me.”
“He wasn’t rude or threatening?”
She cocks her head to the side, like she’s remembering the conversation. “No. Just blunt. He reminded me to have boundaries with you. And he’s right—”
“I can’t.” I cut her off.
“Can’t what?” There’s hope in her brown eyes.
“Have boundaries with you.”
