Marco takes the passenger seat while Jag takes the driver’s seat. I slide in next to Ben. In the rearviewmirror, I catch Marco glancing back at us. At her. At me. Something unreadable in his expression.
Ben is still clutching Frederick. Her breathing is evening out but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“You did so good,” I tell her. “That was really brave.”
“But Matilda didn’t come.” Her voice cracks. “She... she abandoned me.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Here we go again.
“I know,” I say carefully. “And that’s really hard. But I’m here now. Is that okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses Frederick harder against her chest.
From the front seat, Marco’s voice is low and careful. “Matilda had to go away,piccola. But she didn’t abandon you. Sometimes adults have to make choices. It doesn’t mean they didn’t care.”
Ben just holds Frederick tighter.
We drive in silence after that. Well, not silence. Manhattan traffic is never silent. Horns and sirens and the general din of too many people in too small a space.
I count breaths without meaning to. An old habit. My own anxiety rising because what if I messed this up already? What if she hates me? What if Marco regrets hiring me?
When your imposter syndrome shows up on day one.
Cut to me being fired before dinner.
The townhouse is everything I expected and nothing I’m prepared for. Gorgeous. Historic. The kind of place that gets featured in magazines with titles like “ManhattanLiving Goals.”
We pull into the private garage. Marco’s out first, opening Ben’s door himself. She won’t move.
“Frederick needs to see your room,” I try from my side of the car. “He’s never been here before.”
Marco shoots me a look. Surprised maybe. That I’m still trying.
My suggestion works.
Barely.
Ben slides out of the car seat and we make our way inside.
The kitchen is warm. Literally and figuratively. Herb garden past the window. Butcher block counters. That lived-in feeling that costs a fortune to achieve.
A woman I assume is Rosa is at the stove. Housekeeper and cook. She turns when we enter and her whole face softens.
“Miss Ben.” Her accent is thick and comforting. “Welcome home, my baby.”
But Ben just stands there. Frozen again. Her eyes are filling with tears.
“Where’s Matilda?” she asks, even though she knows. Even though we already talked about this.
And the panic is back. I can see it crawling up her spine.
Think fast, Riley.
“You know what?” I crouch down again. Getting real familiar with this position. “I think Frederick is thirsty. Want to make him some brave cocoa?”
