She shrugs, but her eyes are doing that thing where they’re searching my face for something I’m not saying. “You just look…down.”
Maria’s always been able to see right through me. It’s one of those sibling perks that I’m not always grateful for—the fact that she can read my moods from across a room, that she knows when I’m lying about being fine, that she can tell the differencebetween my normal baseline seriousness and actual sadness. She might tease me relentlessly and steal food off my plate and give me shit about everything from my organizational systems to my dating life—or lack thereof—but underneath all of that is this bone-deep loyalty that came from our father and a formidable fierceness that came from our mother. She’s not intimidated by anyone or anything, never has been, and she says exactly what’s on her mind whether you want to hear it or not.
Even now she’s looking at me with her eyebrows pulled together in that little V of worry, waiting for me to either tell her the truth or commit to the lie.
“I’m okay,” I say, and I give her a small nod, a smaller smile, trying to sell it.
She studies me for another second, then gives a short nod back. She doesn’t believe me—I can tell she doesn’t believe me—but she’s letting it go for now, which I appreciate more than I’d ever admit out loud.
Of course I’m okay. I always have to be okay. Okay for Emma, who needs at least one stable parent. Okay for my family so they don’t worry about me more than they already do. Okay for my students and my colleagues and everyone else who’s depending on me to function like a normal human being instead of someone whose life imploded six months ago.
But maybe Allison was right. Maybe Annie would be the fresh start we needed.
I cling to that hope. Tomorrow must be a good day. Not just adequate, but genuinely good. I have to believe that tomorrow Emma’s going to have a good day with someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s broken or difficult. Someone who just sees her as a kid who’s hurting and needs patience and honesty and space to feel whatever she’s feeling without being judged for it. The alternative is a path I cannot afford to contemplate.
So I will show up tomorrow, I will hand over my four-page single-spaced manifesto, I will attempt not to hover, and I will hope—with a desperation I keep locked behind my sternum—that the woman I fought on Avenue B can somehow, improbably, become the key to a new kind of peace for the small, storm-tossed girl who is my entire world.
Chapter 9
ANNIE
The familiar brass 2A gleams under the hallway sconce, a polished sentinel before the door. I let out a long, slow breath that does nothing to quell the low-grade tremor in my hands. My outfit was a product of agonized deliberation: my one pair of well-fitting Levi’s, a simple white long-sleeved tee, a grey cardigan that whispered ‘responsible but approachable.’ My Keds, chosen for potential sprinting after a small human. My small silver hoops from Eileen, a talisman of a different life.
I did light makeup—just mascara and some lip gloss—which is more than I wanted to do when I woke up at six-thirty this morning feeling like I’d been hit by a semi-truck. I barely slept. Every time I started to drift off, I’d jolt awake thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. Emma locking me in a bathroom. Emma chopping off my hair. Or a limb. Emma throwing plates at my head while I try to explain that violence isn’t the answer.
Cori and Marcus had tried to calm me down last night when I was pacing the apartment like a caged animal, running through worst-case scenarios out loud until Marcus finally looked up from the painting he was working on and said, “Annie, if the kid kills you, at least you won’t have to worry about the damn rent anymore.” It was the morbid, grounding absurdity I’d needed.
I knock on the door, three quick raps, and immediately hear the skittering pitter-patter of small feet on the other side.
The door swings open and Emma’s standing there, grinning broadly, her blonde hair a wild mess of curls that suggests no one has brushed it yet this morning. She’s still in her nightgown—blue flannel with little pink flowers on it and lace at the top—and her feet are bare.
“Annie!” she practically shouts, like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in years instead of two people who met once for fifteen minutes. “You came back! Dad said you would but I wasn’t sure because the other ladies always said they’d come back and then they didn’t.”
The simple statement is a heart-wrenching archive of small betrayals. “Well, I’m here,” I say, my smile feeling more genuine. “I promised I’d bring those pictures, remember?”
Her eyes, that shocking cerulean, widen. “Yes! Are they ready? Can I see?”
“Not until next weekend. But…” I hold up the small plastic bag I’ve been clutching like a lifeline. “I brought you your very own. A camera. For you to use.”
The transformation is instantaneous. Reverence softens her features as she takes the bag, peering inside at the humble Kodak FunSaver like it’s the Holy Grail. “For me?”
“For you. So you can take your own pictures.”
“Come on!” Her small, warm hand seizes mine, tugging me inside with surprising force. “You have to see my room! I have so many Barbies and Dad says it’s too many but he’s wrong, right? You can never have too many Barbies.”
I let myself be pulled through the pristine entryway. “Whereisyour dad?”
“Doing boring stuff,” she announces, dismissing the entirety of him with a wave. “He’s always doing boring stuff.”
“I heard that.” The voice, a familiar baritone edged with morning gravel, comes from down the hall.
Leo’s in pleated khakis and a burgundy button-down with sleeves meticulously rolled to his elbows. He’s paired them with a brown leather belt, polished shoes, and his dark hair is tamed, swept back from his forehead. And he’s wearing glasses—wire-rimmed, rectangular frames that somehow sharpen his features, giving him a Clark Kent gravity that is objectively, annoyingly compelling. He looks competent, put-together, and utterly in control.
A stark contrast to my frizzing hair and internal panic.
“Good morning, Annie.” He steps forward, extending his hand. The gesture is formal, a little distancing.
I take it. His grip is firm, warm, and brief. “Morning.”
