“I’m not that worried.”
“Uh-huh.” He puts the parmesan back, pulls out a bell pepper, frowns at it. “How was your session today?”
“Good, actually.” I shift on the couch, dislodging Nikita, who gives me a look of profound betrayal before relocating to the arm. “Dr. Okafor thinks I’m making progress. We talked about avoidance behaviors. How I use distance to protect myself from things that feel too big.”
“And?”
“And I decided to do something about it.”
Wyatt pulls out an onion, considers it, sets it on the counter. “That sounds ominous.”
“Maybe.”
He moves to the pantry, scanning shelves. “What are we thinking for dinner? I can’t decide if I want to do something simple or actually put in effort.”
Here it is. My opening.
“Actually,” I say, “we should probably figure that out. We’re having a guest.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s already reaching for the pasta, his posture shifting into that easy recalibration I know so well, mentally adding a fourth portion, maybe thinking about wine, whether we have enough salad. “Who’s coming?”
I watch him do the math for an adult. Watch him pull a second box of linguine off the shelf just in case.
“Zoey.”
The pasta box freezes mid-air.
Wyatt turns slowly. “Zoey.”
“Callie’s hospital is doing their annual charity fundraiser tonight. I said we’d take her.”
He sets the box down on the counter with exaggerated care. His expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and then—as it catches up to what I’m actually saying—tenderness. The recognition of exactly what this costs me.
I wait for the concern. The gentle question about whether I’m sure, whether I’m ready. Part of me wants him to talk me out of it. Part of me is terrified he will.
Zoey is twenty months old and I love her. That’s the whole point. I love her, and I’m tired of my body going rigid every time she reaches for me, tired of the way my throat closes around something that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with fears I never fully unpacked. She deserves an aunt who can hold her without flinching.
“Nina.” He crosses to the couch, sits on the coffee table facing me. “That’s huge.”
“It’s babysitting. People do it all the time.”
“Not people who’ve spent the last month avoiding being alone in a room with her.”
I don’t have a response to that, because he’s right. Every time we’ve been at Mason and Callie’s, I’ve found reasons to stay in the kitchen, to help with dishes, to suddenly need fresh air. Zoey is a whole human being and I’ve been treating her like a live grenade.
“I can’t keep running from things,” I say quietly. “From her. From what she represents. I made my choice and I don’t regret it, but I can’t let it turn me into someone who’s afraid of children.”
Wyatt reaches for my hand. “You know Chris and I will be right here.”
“I know.”
“And if it gets to be too much?—”
“I know.” I squeeze his fingers. “That’s kind of the point. I trust you both to catch me if I fall.”
“I should have asked first,” I add. “I know. But I needed to commit before I could talk myself out of it.”
Wyatt’s quiet for a moment, thumb tracing over my knuckles. “So. Pasta’s probably still fine for a toddler, right?”
