More giggles.
No matter what I say, she laughs. Like I’m the funniest man alive.
And then, I notice Rhea standing in the archway. Watching us.
Her arms are crossed. There’s a softness in her expression, but also something faraway in her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She nods, but it doesn’t feel entirely true.
Bath time is chaos and bubbles and joy. Then it’s bedtime stories.
“Choose some books,” Rhea says, and Esme promptly goes to a shelf in the corner like she’s clocking in for duty at the Maplewick Mini Library. She inspects each title, carefully pulling some out, sliding others back. When she’s done, she announces, “All done.”
Rhea peeks at the stack. “Five. Let’s count.”
They count together, tapping the covers. But when Esme grabs an extra book from the shelf, Rhea stays firm.
“Five, Ez. You know the rule.”
I laugh. “But six or seven would besomuch more fun.”
Rhea gives me a sideways glance. “No need for commentary from the peanut gallery.”
Then, as she heads for the rocker, Esme grabs my hand.
“Books,” she says, tugging.
I glance at Rhea.
She smiles. “Wow. Lucky you. You’ve been selected as the guest reader. Here—this is the designated reading chair. But remember, we have a strict five-book limit. Any deviation, and we’ll have to revoke your privileges.”
I take a seat, and Esme climbs up into my lap like she’s done it a hundred times. But it’s my first time. And I’m… stunned.
I’ve read to my nephew before—silly voices, exaggerated drama—but never like this. Never holding someone so small. So trusting.
And something about it—her tiny body against my chest, her eyes scanning the pictures as I read—feels so good it scares me a bit.
Rhea takes Esme back to her room to tuck her in, and while they’re gone, I take a slow lap around the little home..
It’s sturdy. Cozy. Lived in.
There are signs of her everywhere—her taste, her presence, her life. Dog-eared books stacked on a side table. A drying rack by the heater filled with tiny socks. A to-do list stuck to the fridge with a crayon magnet that says “Maplewick Reads!”
This is real life.
Herlife.
And I’m not just glad to be here—I’m honored.
When Rhea returns, I don’t hesitate. I pull her into my arms and kiss her. Hard. Long. Like I’ve been waiting all week to feel her again.
When I finally pull back, I brush my lips against hers and whisper, “She’s pretty wonderful, you know. Definitely second fiddle to Sedona.”
There’s something in the way she looks at me—wide-eyed, unreadable—but underneath, I see it: vulnerability. And I want her to know. Ineedher to know.
I’m here.
