She turns her tear-streaked face toward me, and I have to fight the urge to bundle her up and run far away from all of this.
"Hannah said…she said I only got a part in the play because of Sophia." Her voice cracks. "And Charlie said his mom says we're attention seekers." She hiccups slightly, and more tears fall. "I don't like school anymore."
The weight of her pain settles in my chest like lead. This is exactly the kind of pain I was trying to protect her from.
"Is Sophia coming over tonight?" Hazel asks, wiping her eyes.
The question hits me like a physical blow.
Since the play, I've been making excuses to avoid Sophia, telling myself that it's in both of our interests to take a beat until the press frenzy blows over. She finally opted to stay at her house tonight. Some gave some excuse about meeting the new housekeeper early, but I think she feels me pulling back.
“Actually your mom is on her way,” I tell her. “She wanted to spend time with you tonight.”
Hazel nods. “Ok, maybe tomorrow.”
My phone buzzes for what feels like the hundredth time today. Sophia's name lights up the screen, and I let it go to voicemail, just like I have with her previous calls and texts. With each ignored message, I'm doing what needs to be done—what any father would do. It's as simple as that. Except it's not simple at all because my finger keeps finding its way back to her name, and the tightness in my chest won't go away.
But then I see Hazel's backpack by the door, the one she didn't want to take to school this morning. Six years old is too young for this. She's too young to understand why her classmates are suddenly so interested in her father's personal life and too young to process why some kids are treating her differently. The simple joy of first grade shouldn't come with this kind of baggage. God, I'm being a coward, letting Sophia face this alone while I hide behind my daughter as an excuse. But isn't that what parents do? Make the hard choices, be the bad guy, sacrifice what they want for what their kid needs?
I'm not being fair to Sophia, shutting her out without a word, but I know that if I hear her voice, if I try to explain, my resolve will crumble, and I can't afford to question this—not when Hazel needs me.
Later, after getting Hazel settled in bed with her favoritestuffed animal and three bedtime stories, I flip through the photos on my phone from the past couple of months. Shots of Sophia and Hazel baking cookies, all three of us at the beach, and other candid moments of happiness I'd started to take for granted. My finger hovers over Sophia's last text.
SOPHIA
Haven't heard from you all day. Everything ok? I'm worried about you both.
The words blur as I remember Hazel's tears, the photographers' cameras, the way my daughter is learning to hide. I let myself forget the most important lesson my father's death taught me: the more you love, the more you have to lose. I can't lose anything else. I won't let Hazel lose anything else.
I set my phone down without responding and turn away from the photos. The happiness they capture feels like a threat now, like a promise I can't keep.
forty-one
. . .
Sophia
The worst partisn't the silence. It's the perfectly reasonable excuses that come with it. First, they were work-related. Budget meetings all day. Early morning calls with the streaming team. Then he was out of town with my brother, Wyatt, on their Manmorial weekend trip, which was extended into a week-long trip.
I stare at the string of texts from Grant, each one polite, professional, and completely hollow. I moved the last of my things out of his house while he was out of town, and he hasn't said a word since he's been back, not about the empty drawers in his closet or my favorite coffee mug missing from the kitchen cabinet. I've managed to slowly erase myself from his life one box at a time, hoping the gradual shift would spark something in him.
The distance has been growing since the night of the play, the night the press started wanting more from us. I understood he was upset, so I wanted to give him space.That's when I noticed how many pieces of myself I'd scattered throughout his house—my spare phone charger by his bed, my favorite sweater draped over his office chair, the fancy face wash I'd started keeping in his bathroom.
We never talked about me moving in with him. I just sort of adjusted into a routine with him. Moving back into my house was always the plan, but now it feels like it also signifies the end of whatever we just started.
My phone buzzes—Blair, not Grant.
BLAIR
Lunch?
An hour later, I slide into the booth at Olive's Bistro, a restaurant inside a Burbank hotel, perfect for private conversations. Blair's expression is carefully neutral, which is never a good sign.
"Just tell me," I say, pushing the menu aside.
"I had drinks with Marcus last night," she says, naming one of Grant's fellow executives. "There's…" She tilts her head from side to side. "Concern at the studio about perception."
"Perception," I repeat flatly.
