As I watch Hazel skip back to the building, Blair touches my arm. "You ok?"
"No," I admit, surprised by my own honesty. "But I will be."
I just wasn't sure when.
forty-four
. . .
Grant
I stay hiddenbehind the corner of the studio building, watching Hazel hug Sophia goodbye. I don't mean to eavesdrop, but the sight of them together has me frozen in place. Sophia kneels to Hazel's level—like she always does—making my daughter feel heard and important.
Her hair is shorter now, falling just past her shoulders instead of down her back. The same golden brown catches the afternoon sun, but everything else about her seems muted somehow. The spark in her eyes has dimmed, and her smile seems more careful, professional. It's the kind she uses for press junkets and red carpets, not the real one that used to light up my kitchen in the morning.
A familiar ache tightens in my chest when Hazel mentions my morning coffee habit. I've tried to hide how much Sophia's absence has affected me, but Hazel notices everything. She always does.
I should have told her. I should have explained about the kids at school, about the panic that gripped me every time Isaw another photographer. Instead, I let distance and silence do the work for me, watching her slowly withdraw until she was gone. The coward's way out. Now, seeing the shadows under her eyes and the way her shoulders tense slightly when Hazel mentions my name—I did that. I put that wariness there, that hint of hurt she's trying so hard to hide.
I press my back against the cool concrete of the building, staying hidden. It's safer here, watching from a distance. These past weeks, I’ve gotten good at burying myself in work, in meetings, in anything that keeps me from admitting I might have broken something irreplaceable—that in trying to protect Hazel, I may have cost her someone who loved her almost as much as I do.
On the drive home, Hazel chatters non-stop.
"Sophia's hair is shorter now," she says, leaning her head to the window. "And she said maybe we could get ice cream soon. Did you know she was back? Why didn't you tell me?"
I focus on the road, grateful for an excuse not to meet her gaze. "I didn't know."
"She looks pretty," Hazel continues. "But kind of sad—like you do sometimes when you think I'm not looking."
My grip tightens on the steering wheel as the memories wash over me. The weeks of burying myself in work until I'm too exhausted to think. Picking up my phone to call her a hundred times before setting it down. Scanning every article about her Vancouver project just to see her face.
I kept telling myself she was probably better off without me, but that didn't stop me from driving by her house some nights, just in case she was back. All I saw were dark windows and an empty driveway.
The worst moments come when something reminds me of her. When Hazel puts on a movie we once watched together, the smell of coconut shampoo in the grocery store aisle, or how my office chair feels too big and empty without Sophia curled up in it. More than once, I've turned to share a joke with her before remembering she's not there.
When we step into the house, the smell of Sarah's homemade lasagna fills the air. She's been coming by more often, probably sensing Hazel and I need the company.
"And Sophia said she'd try to make time to see me," Hazel announces, dumping her backpack by the stairs. "I'm going upstairs to change. Be right back!"
Sarah waits until Hazel disappears upstairs. "Sophia's back?"
"Apparently," I say, sinking into a kitchen chair. "We ran into her at the studio."
"And?"
"And nothing. I'm sure she was wrapping up post-production onSurvivor. Hazel saw her while I hid in the shadows." I rub my face. "It doesn't change anything."
Sarah sets her spoon down with careful deliberation. "Mom called this morning."
I tense. "How is she?"
"She's good. We talked about Dad," Sarah says softly, "and about you."
I swallow hard. "Sarah?—"
"She told me something that stuck with me. If she had the chance to do it all over, even knowing how it would end and how much it would hurt, she'd still choose Dad every time."
I shake my head. "That's different."
