“That is not what I asked,” she says.
I glance at her. “You are six.”
“And?”
“And why are you cross-examining me like a lawyer?”
She shrugs and looks out the window. “She makes you look less tired.”
That lands harder than it should. I pull away from the curb, jaw tight.
Because she is not wrong.
And that might be the most alarming part.
At home, the evening routine feels almost normal. I make dinner, it’s nothing fancy, just mac, cheese, hot dogs, and chicken nuggets. Maisie talks the entire way through dinner, thankfully, not once talking about the kiss.
Afterward, she takes her bath, splashes water everywhere and insists on wearing pajamas with stars for extra dream power.
I tuck her into bed, making sure she’s all cozy.
“Story?” she asks.
“Short one,” I say. “You need sleep.”
She nods and pulls her stuffed sloth closer. I grab the book on her nightstand, but before I can open it, she says, “Wait.”
I brace myself. “What now?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Which one?”
“About Charlotte. Do you like her?” Her eyes are sleepy but sharp, too observant for my comfort.
I think about lying. I really do.
But she is my kid. We don’t do lies in this house. Not the big ones, anyway.
“I like her,” I say quietly.
She smiles like she knew it all along. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because she’s nice,” she says simply. “And she listens when I talk.”
I feel something twist in my chest. “You think I don’t listen when you talk?”
She scrunches her nose. “You listen, but you also make your thinking face.”
“My thinking face?”
“Yep,” she says, touching between her eyebrows. “Right here.”
I huff. “I listen to you.”
“I know,” she says. “But you listen differently.”
