I have to laugh. “But he’s not a serial killer, right?”
“Nah, I only need one of those kinds of men in my life.” Molly shrugs, but her eyes flick up to mine—almost sheepish, which is how I know she’s serious. “Seriously though, he’s cool, Jen. Like, actually cool. I wanted to hate him, but I can’t.”
I let that sit for a second, then smile. “Should I send flowers to your mom as a congrats then? Or an edible arrangement of, like, ibuprofen and therapy coupons for him, since this family has a way of scarring people?”
She laughs. “Do both. Send them to her work. Make it weird.”
I shake my head, and then let out a laugh. “So what’s the actual emergency?” I ask, even though I know she just wanted an excuse to break up my morning.
She crosses her legs, picks at the new rip in her jeans. “Dad doesn’t know. I wanted you to hear it first so you could, like, prep him. You know, since the last one ended up in the river.” There’s a flicker of something in her expression, but it dies quickly.
She got that from her father. Of that, I am certain.
“Just forewarn him, because she wants a dinner.”
“I’ll put it in the afternoon briefing,” I laugh. “Maybe print him a pamphlet about healthy co-parenting.”
She cackles at that, and then the silence settles—a soft one, not awkward at all. I go back to the applications, and she watches, swinging her foot in time with the clock on the wall.
“You know,” she says after a minute, “You’re like, really good at this.”
I snort. “At what? Babysitting functional adults?”
She shakes her head. “No, like…this. Running stuff for Dad. He’s so much less…rigidnow.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “Thanks, but don’t let him hear you say that,” I mutter. “He’ll start assigning me more shifts or something.”
She grins. “You’d love it. Admit it.”
“Not a chance.”
She leans back, propping herself up on her elbows. “You got any plans for tonight?”
I glance at the family calendar tacked to the corkboard—Sharpie appointments, Molly’s debate meets, Bradford’s crypticworktrips highlighted in a color only I use. “Not unless you count signing off on payroll. Why?”
She tries to look casual, and then totally fails at it. “Maybe I want to invite someone over for dinner.”
“Your mom’s boyfriend?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.Mine.”
“Oh,” I say, because my brain short-circuits at the idea of Molly—tiny, angry Molly—having a boyfriend. “Does your dad know? Because maybe dropping two boyfriends on him is a lot…”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I kind of want to keep his kneecaps unbroken for at least one semester.”
I stifle a grin. “Cal is notthatbad.”
“He’s a nightmare,” she says, but there’s no heat to it. “But you make him better.”
“I run interference,” I huff. “But you have to give me details. Name, hobbies, any priors. You know, for the inevitable background check.”
She giggles, pure mischief. “Deal.”
We lock eyes, and for a second I feel that weird, motherly nuance toward her. It’s taken time, given the fact I had to come to clean to her about everything, but Molly is well, her father’s daughter. And she understood.
And she won that essay contest.
Before I can pick more at the boyfriend topic, the door swings open behind us, and Bradford’s presence floods the room like a tide. He’s got snow in his beard and a streak of blue paint down one sleeve, but he’s smiling in that way that means he’s about to say something devastating.
