Grief was present. It burned under my skin, but it had taken a new form. A softer form. It lingered but was no longer debilitating.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No. Don’t be sorry.” Kobe’s tender words penetrated the fog. “I know talking about her isn’t easy, but thank you for sharing.”
“I’m better, Kobe. I’m getting better. Slowly. It’s not fair to you that I—”
“Stop it. She was part of your life for a long time. I don’t expect you to forget her overnight.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.” I glanced at the kitchen doorway, listening to Cosette play. “That little girl is a constant reminder.” I met Kobe’s concerned gaze. “Have I ruined this?”
“Not at all.”
Dinner passed with constant interruptions from Cosette, who was curious about Kobe and continuously bounced into the kitchen to stare at the stranger in her house. They exchanged smiles several times before Cosette shed the last of her reservation and decided Kobe was worthy of seeingallher toys, hearingallher songs, and watchingallher dances.
It was impossible to engage in a deep conversation, and we eventually gave up.
After dinner, Kobe volunteered to entertain Cosette while I cleaned up the kitchen. By the time I joined them in the living room, Kobe was seated on the floor by the Christmas tree, surrounded by Cosette’s endless collection of Polly Pockets, the two deeply entrenched in playing house. As was typical, Cosette was the boss, telling Kobe where to put the furniture and directing him along. Kobe didn’t flinch and followed every instruction, giving all the characters in her story unique voices.
I remained out of sight for a time, observing their interactions, silently tickled at how easily Kobe handled a toddler he barely knew—and he a man with no kids of his own. The sturdy cop side of him had vanished as he invented dramatic conversations.
Cosette giggled and reciprocated, alternating between French and English. Kobe, although bilingual, stuck to one, and I wondered if Cosette had informed him to speak English as I so often did with her when she mixed her languages.
This man on my living room floor was the Kobe who volunteered with the Big Brothers organization, who coached baseball in the summertime. The same man who had been forced to grow up too soon. Who left home at sixteen and somehow managed to make his way in the world all by himself. Levelheaded and mature, yet still a kid at heart, and he owned it. He recognized his contrasting characteristics.
Kobe didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
The handsome detective noticed me spying from the doorway a short time later and blushed, cutting his gaze to the spread of dolls in front of him. “Busted playing with dolls,” he said under his breath. “I’m in a world of trouble, Cosette.”
Cosette didn’t understand his statement and glanced between us.
“C’est l’heure d’aller se coucher,” I said, informing her it was bedtime. “Clean up your toys.”
Cosette crossed her arms and pouted. “Non. Je veux jouer.”
“Playing is all done. Bedtime. Show Kobe where the toybox is.”
“Je peux tu prendre un bain?”
“No bath tonight. In the morning, before we go visit Maman.”
“Come on. I’ll help,” Kobe offered, collecting the dolls. “Where do they go?”
Cosette reluctantly gave in and sulkily sang the tidy-up song from daycare as she put the toys in their bin.
When they finished, I collected Cosette and stalled. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
I glanced around the living room, zeroing in on the curio cabinet. “Do you want to pour a couple of drinks?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
I returned fifteen minutes later to find Kobe sipping from a tumbler while admiring the various Christmas decorations strung on the tree. He’d turned the lights on, and the clear bulbs chased one another around the branches. The effect nauseated me, but Cosette had chosen them. I hadn’t put any presents beneath the tree yet, out of fear that a toddler might lose impulse control the second my back was turned and tear into them early, so the hat-tip to Christmas felt only half-realized.
“Is she sound asleep?” he asked, turning from the tree.
“Not yet, but she’s reading quietly in bed. It usually doesn’t take long.”
