“I know. But I want him to know. He deserves to know.” I take a breath. “It might have been his. Or Chris’s.”
“Speaking of Chris,” Callie says, her voice carrying that particular tone of sisterly exasperation, “I finally got him on the phone yesterday. Apparently he’s been in LA for days without telling me.”
“I know that too... he came to see me when he got into town, actually. I invited him tonight too,” I admit.
She shakes her head, a small laugh escaping. “We’re both trying to drag him here, and you know he’ll probably still find some excuse to disappear. But he’d better show up—I have words for him about his vanishing acts.”
Vanishing acts. That’s one way to put it. I’ve woken up alone after plenty of one-night-stands, but that night was different. At least Wyatt showed up for breakfast—quiet, careful, but present. Chris couldn’t even manage that. Just disappeared entirely, like the night meant nothing. Or maybe like it meant too much.
“Are you okay with this?” she asks more gently. “All three of you in the same room? After everything?”
The question encompasses so much—the night at the wedding, the pregnancy, the abortion, all of it.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Having them both here, in the same space, after everything...” I trail off, unable to articulate the knot of dread and anticipation in my chest. “It’s going to be a disaster.”
21
Nina
“Or it might be exactly what you all need.” Callie returns to her onions. “Sometimes the only way past it is straight through the mess.”
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, though my pulse is still elevated from naming the impossible situation I’ve created. Callie’s onions make my eyes water, sharp and clean—a relief, actually, because now there’s a reason for the stinging. I suddenly miss the overly clinical medical conversation we were just having. I’d rather spend the rest of the night talking about Zoey’s developmental progress than face what’s coming.
Mason’s voice drifts in from the backyard along with the scent of the lit grill. I finish the cilantro and move on to the peppers, then the limes, grateful for the task that keeps my hands busy and gives me an excuse to avoid Callie’s too-perceptive gaze. The lime juice stings a small cut on my knuckle I didn’t notice getting, and I wonder when I started being so careless with knives.
“There,” I say, combining everything in the serving bowl. “Perfect salsa.”
“You always were better at this than me.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel.
“Chopping isn’t cooking,” I remind her. “Anything else I can do that doesn’t require a stove?”
“Nothing. You’ve done enough.” Callie pulls a container of marinated meat from the refrigerator, balancing it against her hip. “Pour yourself some wine and relax. I need to get this out to Mason and get him grilling soon or we’ll be eating at midnight.”
She disappears toward the back door, leaving me alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen. I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle she left on the counter—a crisp sauvignon blanc that catches the late afternoon light streaming through the window. I take a longer sip than I should, feeling the alcohol warm my chest. I focus on these details, filing them away like evidence, anything to avoid the weight of what I just told Callie about wanting to be here for her family.
The house is no more than a cozy bungalow with an open plan—small dining area and kitchen on one side, living room on the other where Zoey has gone back to building. It’s comfortable and clean but obviously too small for a growing family. And to think Mason grew up here with four siblings.
Zoey babbles, animated and pleased with herself. I watch her from the kitchen, keeping the island between us, assessing her motor skills, her verbal patterns, the way she problem-solves. Safe observations. Clinical distance. Except that’s exactly what I’m doing—turning a toddler into a case study because being around her makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t want to examine.
Classic avoidance behavior, Nina. Very professional.
But my very active avoidance of her distracts me enough from my thoughts about what tonight will bring.
Her construction has grown considerably more elaborate since I arrived, and despite myself, I’m genuinely impressed. Maybe if I focus on the cognitive development aspects, I can manage this one small step without falling apart.
I meant what I said to Callie. I want to be here for them. For her. Which means I need to stop treating a toddler like a specimen and start seeing her as... well, as Zoey.
I take another sip of wine for courage and step around the island.
“What are you making?” I ask, crouching beside her.
“Grande château pour Papa,” she says without looking up, placing another block with precision. “Like Mémère’s pictures.”
The easy bilingual switch surprises me. At eighteen months, most kids are barely stringing two words together, but Zoe’s constructing sentences in two languages like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“That’s very impressive,” I tell her, and mean it.
She beams at the praise, then adds a smaller block to what might be a tower. “Papa come home from el océano grande. Now we make château together.”
