Kobe beamed. “Sounds like a girl after my own heart. Clandestine missions to retrieve cookies. Been there more times than I can count. I could offer her some tips.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Not for the first time, I noted the ease with which Kobe accepted Cosette as part of my life. He was never uncomfortable or avoidant when it came to talking about her, and he had even volunteered to be on alert if I headed to the gym in the morning.
I hadn’t decided yet if I was going to leave her in his care—our relationship was brand new—but knowing I had the option, that Kobe wasn’t fearful of being left alone with a toddler meant something.
Kobe followed me into the kitchen, where we found Cosette exactly as I predicted, climbing precariously from her booster seat. Caught in the act of escape, Cosette froze and stared with wide eyes.
I jolted forward to save her before she toppled the chair or crashed to the ground.
“You’re a monkey.” I swung her to my hip and carried her to the sink to clean her up. Sitting her on the counter, I wiped her face and hands as she peered curiously at Kobe, who didn’t miss a beat.
“You said she was a cookie monster, but you didn’t say she was a mashed potato monster too.”
Cosette giggled and tried to hide her face against my chest, but I held her back since she wasn’t yet clean. “Can you say hello to Kobe?”
She offered a shy greeting.
I set her on her feet and patted her butt. “Va jouer. Papa is going to eat dinner with his friend.”
Cosette didn’t move.
Kobe shuffled away from the door, offering her more space. When she still didn’t move, Kobe scooted over another few feet, this time bouncing on his toes while vocalizing each movement with a “boing, boing, boing.”
Cosette giggled, and her reservation vanished. She put on a show, hopping from the kitchen to the living room with a fewboingsof her own until she broke into song. “Saute petit lapin. Saute, saute, saute.”
Kobe watched her go, grinning. “She’s got a future career in theater.”
Their exchange brought a smile to my face, but the comment was a twisted knife in the gut. Internally, I reeled but forced myself not to outwardly react as I turned to the trays of food on the stovetop.
“Yes. She loves to sing and dance. All day, every day.”
Kobe, ever observant, crossed the kitchen and stopped beside me. The warmth of his attention seared the side of my face, but I refused to make eye contact.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no. It’s nothing.” I spooned giant mounds of mashed potatoes onto two clean plates, intently focused on the task.
“Dominique?”
With a gentle touch, Kobe removed the spoon from my hand, setting it aside. I reached for the tongs, intent on transferring chicken to the plates as well, but he stopped me again.
“Dominique, look at me.”
I couldn’t and stared instead at the crispy drumsticks arranged on the baking sheet. I would need to reheat them. The green beans, too, but Kobe’s presence, his alertness, halted everything.
Before I could think too hard about it, I spoke, gaze fixed on the stovetop. On the past. Singing in the shower. Dances in the living room. “Angelique dreamed of being on stage. She loved the theater. Musicals especially. Her voice was… beautiful. Mesmerizing. We got season tickets every year to the Toronto productions. The ones on the big stage. Once, for her birthday, we flew to New York. There’s nothing like seeing a show on Broadway. Are you familiar withLes Misérables?”
“I saw the movie with Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe. I enjoyed it.”
I smiled sadly. “Yes. It was good. We saw it twice on the big screen when it came out and once on stage in Toronto when it played. It was Angelique’s favorite. She knew every word and could sing every song.”
A faint intake of surprise stirred the air, and Kobe’s next words came out on a whisper. “Oh my god. Cosette.”
“Yes. Like the child in the story. Fantine dies and leaves her in Valjean’s care. It was Angelique’s dying wish that she be named Cosette.”
Kobe’s hand landed on my lower back. He turned me to face him and cradled my jaw, angling my chin so I would look at him. I struggled to make eye contact. The pain of remembering brought an ache to my chest. I waited for the tears, but theydidn’t come. I waited for the strangling chokehold that crippled me and often sent me to my knees. It remained absent.
