I stare at him. My brain’s still catching up, trying to find the objection, the reason this won’t work.
But there isn’t one.
I trust him with her.The realisation lands quietly, settling somewhere beneath the panic.
“Struan, I—” My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
“It’s fine.” His brow creases. “But are you sure you’re okay to drive? You’re shaking.”
I look down. He’s right. My hands are trembling.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
I fumble for my house key. “Here. Lily might be happier at home, with her things. Books, colouring stuff, Mr Flops—whatever keeps her busy.”
“Got it. Go.”
I hold his gaze for one more second—steady, reassuring—then hurry towards my car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
STRUAN
I’m sitting cross-legged on Lily’s bedroom floor, surrounded by a sea of Barbies, tiny shoes, and enough plastic paraphernalia to stock a small toy shop. My knees are protesting—I’m a six-foot-three bloke, not exactly built for sitting like a pretzel—but Lily’s in charge here and she knows it.
In my hand is “Stwuan Barbie”, the doll Isla and Lily renamed at the beach barbecue because apparently the resemblance to me is uncanny. Without the outfit I was wearing that day, I don’t see it myself, but Lily is adamant the doll is Stwuan Barbie. She’s also adamant that Stwuan Barbie is a girl, not a boy.
She carefully manoeuvres a tiny rucksack onto the doll’s shoulders, her tongue poking out in concentration. Then she picks up another doll—a slightly battered Elsa fromFrozen, her blonde braid fraying at the ends—and holds her up.
“This is Stwuan Barbie’s mummy,” she informs me.
“Right. Course she is.”
“Okay.” Lily’s voice goes serious, like a director about to call action. “Pretend you shake the bag off and say you’re staying home today. You’re not going to school.”
I make my Barbie shrug off the rucksack. “I’m staying home today,” I say, pitching my voice high and squeaky. “No school.”
Lily instantly switches to her “adult” voice—deeper, slower, dripping with maternal patience. “But youhaveto go. School is where you learn important stuff like reading and counting and how to share.”
“Well, okay then,” I say.
Lily’s face falls. “No! Pretend you didn’t say that. Instead, you stamp your foot and say, ‘No, not going,’ and then I say, ‘I’m going to count to three, Stwuan Barbie,’ and then you say, ‘Okay, fine, I’ll go to school.’”
I nod. “Got it.”
I try again. Lily watches me with narrowed eyes, then nods, apparently satisfied with my performance.
It’s not lost on me that she’s acting out her own morning routine—through a plastic doll named after me. Working things out in miniature. That’s what play’s for, I suppose.
We carry on, Lily running the show with an iron fist wrapped in pink sparkles. Now the class has a new pet pony—a plastic thing with an improbably glittery mane—and the teacher (played by Lily, naturally) has chosen Stwuan Barbie to take it home for the night.
“You have to be very careful with Sparkle,” Lily says sternly, handing me the pony. “She gets scared if you brush her hair too fast.”
“I’ll be gentle,” I promise, arranging the tiny reins with more care than I’ve given most actual tasks today.
