“I’ll keep an eye out for it.” Giving the news to me directly is smart; Olivia’s notes tend to go missing more often than not. Since he also emails out all information on top of the occasional physical notes, I also know he doesn’t personally give the verbal messages to all parents.
Someone should warn him that wearing his heart on his sleeve is a terrible idea. It only ever leads to broken promises and deception.
He bites his bottom lip and shuffles awkwardly, like he’s looking for something to say so that he can prolong the conversation. Far too open. Nothing at all like the man that I’m in love with. Or the shadow that follows him.
Come home with us. Let me hold you.
“Would you like to go on a date with me?” I ask.
His mouth parts in shock, and the red on his cheeks becomes more pronounced. Would it burn my hand if I were to touch it?
“I—uh—I thought you said—”
“I changed my mind.” There’s a sliver of guilt tucked in under my ribs, knowing that I’m merely using him to distract myself, todistancemyself from a man I’ll never not need. There has to be a point where he’s not so viscerally in my blood stream. “Does tonight work for you?”
“Y-yeah, tonight would be—be fine.” He wrings his hands and smiles shyly. It almost makes me want to take back the invitation. He doesn’t belong anywhere near my world.
“Six o’clock. I’ll send you the address.” Eyeing his outfit—old jeans and a soft black sweater—I add, “Wear a suit or something formal casual.”
He doesn’t say a word, only continuing to stare at me, like he’s worried that I’m not real, and he’s dreaming. With a light smile, I turn my back on him and return to my daughter.
Now if only I could convince myself this isn’t a colossal mistake.
“WHEREAREYOUGOING?”Olivia asks, climbing up onto the stool and staring critically at my outfit.
“Nowhere if your uncle doesn’t get here soon,” I reply dryly.
“He’ll be here,” she says confidently. “Is he coming to stay?”
“He has a new home, remember? Getting sick of having just me already?” The older woman who was staying here, Gloria, moved out a few months ago, to stay with the grandma of one of Jericho’s boyfriends. While I’m glad that the disconcerting dolls she created are out of the house—except one in Olivia’s room that she insisted on keeping and will be the demise of us all—the place is quieter than either of us are used to, with just the two of us.
“Yeah,” she says, nodding solemnly. “Do you think Uncle Coco will bring Will or Peyton?”
“Possibly.” I kiss her forehead and then tug my tie off the back of the dining chair and drape it over my shoulders. “Why don’t you text him and ask him where he is?” Handing her my phone, I go in search of my cuff links. I vaguely recall her using them as currency in a game she was playing with her stuffed teddies earlier in the day. I have others, but these were a gift from Xavier a long time ago, and something in me wants to use them specifically. A twisted game I shouldn’t be playing.
“Can I do it?” she asks, making grabby hands. I can’t say no to that face even though I’ll end up looking like I’ve spent the night wrestling a bear. She knows the moves; executing them doesn’t always work out the way she wants it to.
I prop her up onto the bench instead of the stool so that she has better height and remain still while she concentrates, her tongue peeking out between her lips.
Jericho finally gets here, loudly slamming the door behind himself. “Christ, it’s hot in here. What temp is that heater?”
“It’s atdon’t touch it if you value your life. You’re late.”
He ignores my warning and flicks the thermostat down anyway. I’d argue, but since I’ll be leaving in less than five minutes, I can save my energy for another time. Having a child has taught me the importance of picking my battles.
“A couple of minutes, let’s not get too excited. What are you doing on such notice anyway?”
“Dad is going on a date!” Olivia declares brightly.
Both Jericho’s eyebrows shoot up. “Adate?”
“I never said I was going on a date.” Why would she think this is a date? Just another reason I shouldn’t be doing this. Getting personally involved—even in such a small way—with her teacher is one of the worst ideas I’ve had. If I want to get back at Xavier, any man will do; I didn’t need to pickthisone.
“Why did you brush your hair, then?” she says, like it’s the most reasonable conclusion in the world.
“I brush my hair every day.”
She gives me a look that makes her resemble Xavier far too much.
