"Yeah. I'm here," I hear myself say, and I'm mighty proud to hear my voice even and calm when I feel like acids are dissolving me from the inside. "Just make sure to let Zoe know in advance about the recital. I don't want her to wait for you."
"You live with the girl, why can't you just tell her?"
The girl? Is that what Zoe is to him now? Just a girl?
"Because it's not my job to be the bridge between you and your children."
Not anymore.
"Jesus Christ, Rika. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?" There's a long, tense silence, then Mitchell's voice drops, cold and sharp. "You're a cold fish, you know that? Being with you was like sleeping next to a block of ice."
The words should hurt. They don't. Not anymore. I don't care what Mitchell thinks of me.
"Goodbye, Mitchell."
I hang up before he can respond.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. I press my palms flat against my desk, trying to ground myself.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But I can't. The walls are closing in, my chest is too tight, and I feel like I'm drowning. How am I supposed to break this to Zoe and Matthew? I can't stand to have them hurt by Mitchell's absence anymore.
I grab my phone and tell Geraldine I'm stepping out for a walk. She gives me a sharp look but doesn't ask questions.
Chapter 8
Noah
Thelastweekhasgone incredibly well.
I didn't get to see Rika much, but the kids and I are settling into a comfortable routine, and I'm enjoying this new position tremendously. Heading up to Rika's house from the basementapartment around six, I take care of the kids in the morning until it's time to drop them off at school. Then I head over to work at the Mindful Pixie yoga studio, and I work there for Belinda until it's time to pick up the kids after school.
I drive the kids to their after-school activities, then come home to cook and clean until Rika gets home from work.
Works perfectly.
Right now, it’s Saturday night and we're at Zoe's dance recital. I'm sitting in the auditorium at Saltford Bay's community center, breathing in the smell of decades of dust and community theater dreams. Rika is on my left, her hand resting on her knee, her wings pulled tight against her back. She's been tense all day, ever since she told Zoe last night that Mitchell wasn't coming.
That conversation didn't go well. Zoe locked herself in her room for two hours. When she finally came out, her eyes were red but her jaw was set in that stubborn way teenagers have when they’re hurt but can’t express it. She didn't say a word about her father. She just asked what was for dinner.
It broke my heart a little. So when Zoe asked me if I wanted to have her dad’s ticket to the recital, I couldn’t say no. That girl can’t take any more rejection. Even if I’m a poor substitute for her father, I’m glad to be there for her.
Matthew is tucked against my other side like a warm, fidgeting barnacle. He's working his way through a juice box with the kind of intense concentration only a seven-year-old can muster, occasionally offering me a pretzel from his crinkly bag.
"Thanks, buddy," I whisper, accepting a pretzel even though I'm not hungry.
The stage floods with light, and a line of nervous dancers in pale pink and lavender tutus takes their positions. I've been here for over half an hour already, watching the younger classes stumble through their numbers with varying degrees of success.
Then Zoe walks onstage.
She looks different up there. Her sapphire-blue hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her wings folded tight against her back and shimmering under the stage lights like polished gemstones. She holds herself with a grace and confidence I haven't seen in her before, her shoulders back, chin high, feet positioned in perfect first position.
She also looks absolutely terrified.
I can see it in the tension around her mouth, the way her hands tremble slightly before she clasps them together. My chest tightens with something protective and proud all at once.
"That's Zoe!" Matthew announces loudly, pointing at the stage.
