“I’m sure I want to try.” He gives me a small, tired smile. “Apparently that’s what I’m doing now. Trying.”
The pasta water starts to hiss. Chris turns back to watch it. For a few minutes, there’s just the sounds of cooking—the sizzle of the pan, Wyatt’s knife against the cutting board, Nikita’s disgruntled meowing from her banishment to the floor.
Then Chris says, without turning around: “What else?”
I blink. “What?”
“You two.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes moving between us. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re waiting to tell me something.”
Wyatt suddenly becomes very interested in the tomatoes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Nina.” Chris turns fully now, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “You’re a good therapist but a terrible liar. What?—”
The doorbell rings.
Nikita bolts. Chris tenses automatically, then catches my expression and stops.
“That would be Mason and Callie,” I say. “Dropping off Zoey.”
“Dropping off—” His eyebrows climb. “We’re babysitting?”
“Surprise?”
He stares at me. Then at Wyatt, who’s developed a sudden fascination with stirring. Then back at me.
“You love Zoey,” I remind him.
“Zoey is a menace. She has opinions about everything and no volume control.”
“So she takes after her uncle.”
“I’m going on record: this is entrapment.” But he’s smiling. Callie’s adoption of Zoey was finalized last week, and I caught him discreetly wiping his eyes at the courthouse even if he’ll never admit it.
The doorbell rings again. Wyatt’s already wiping his hands on a towel, heading for the door.
I push myself off the counter, suddenly restless. Wyatt catches my eye as he passes—a quick check-in—and I give him a small nod. I’m okay. I think.
When he opens the door, Zoey is already talking—a stream of Spanish and English and something that sounds like she’s practicing French, all about “Tía Nina” and “pasta night” and “Uncle Chris sad?” She makes a beeline for Chris, who scoops her up without breaking stride.
Mason and Callie follow their daughter into the living room. Callie looks stunning. Black dress, hair up, makeup done in a way that takes real effort with a toddler underfoot. Mason cleans up well too, though he’s carrying Zoey’s overnight bag in a way that undermines the elegance.
Wyatt grins, nodding at Mason’s tux. “Getting a lot of mileage out of that thing.”
“Third time,” Mason says. “Finally doesn’t feel like a costume.”
“Growth.”
“She’s been asking about you all day,” Callie tells me, squeezing my arm.
Then she glances toward the kitchen, at the half-made dinner. “Oh—she’ll eat anything, by the way. Trust me. Last week she demanded capers.”
“Capers?” Chris sounds genuinely offended. “She’s two.”
“Yeah, we stopped questioning it ,” Mason says dryly.
I’m standing by the counter. My palms are sweating. The familiar tightness is back in my chest, the urge to retreat, to find something useful to do with my hands. Zoey is in the room and she’s so small, and every time I look at her I feel something clench that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with years of fear I’m only just starting to unpack.
