Leo unbuckled himself and grabbed his bag. “Come on, Dad! We’re gonna be late!”
“You’re early,” I said, but followed him anyway.
Inside, the Penguin Project rehearsal was already buzzing with energy.
“Leo!” the director called, waving him over. “Your partner’s waiting!”
He darted away without a backward glance. I hung back near the door, my volunteer badge lanyard twisted between my fingers.
Part of me was scanning the crowd before I could stop myself.
No sign of Eleanor.
I told myself it didn’t matter. People get busy, maybe Ava wasn’t feeling well, but the faint pinch of disappointment in my chest said otherwise. I busied myself setting up chairs, setting out snacks, doing anything to look like I wasn’t not hovering hopefully near an entrance.
Then the door opened, and there she was.
Eleanor stepped inside, hand resting lightly on Ava’s shoulder. Her hair was pulled back today, loose strands curling around her face, and she wore a soft green sweater that made her eyes look even warmer.
My heart did a weird, traitorous thing, the kind of flutter you’d expect from a teenager, not a grown man with a mortgage and joint custody.
Ava spotted Leo right away and lit up, her hesitation fading as he waved her over to the group.
Eleanor watched her daughter go, that small, proud smile softening her entire face. When she turned and saw me watching, her expression brightened.
“Hey,” she said, walking over.
“Hey,” I echoed, trying to be casual. “You made it.”
“Barely,” she said with a breathy laugh. “We had a battle with socks that had seams that felt weird and an emotional support stuffed bat.”
“Ah, the usual pre-rehearsal chaos.”
“Exactly.” She glanced toward Ava and Leo. “They’re really good together, aren’t they?”
“They are,” I said. “Leo hasn’t stopped talking about her all week. Apparently, she told him the Grimm Reapers are ‘the most metal name ever.’”
Eleanor laughed, covering her mouth. “That sounds like her.”
We drifted toward the little bench by the doors, the familiar hum of the rehearsal behind us.
I cleared my throat. “So, how’s Ava adjusting? School going okay?”
“She’s . . . getting there,” Eleanor said, smiling faintly. “The Penguin Project has helped more than I ever expected. It’s like she finally has a space that fits.”
“That’s the best kind,” I said softly. “A place where you don’t have to explain yourself.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
We sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, watching our kids laugh together.
Then I said, before I could overthink it, “Would you maybe want to grab a coffee?”
Her head turned quickly, eyes widening just a little. “Oh.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s not a big thing. Just . . . coffee. To talk. No pressure.”
There was a pause, long enough for me to start regretting it, and then she smiled.
