Clean. Direct. Very Natalie.
I stared at that one word for a full minute.
Tomorrow.
And I’ve been thinking about it all day.
Maddie is in the living room, sprawled sideways on the couch in mismatched pajamas, arguing with an animated octopus about sharing. The TV glows blue against the walls. The house smells like microwave popcorn and strawberry shampoo.
Normal.
Everything looks normal.
My pulse is not.
When Natalie textsWe need to talk,I assume she’s saying no.
I open the thread.
Her message.
My reply.
That’s it.
No emoji. No cushion.
All day at practice I replayed it.
Not enthusiastic. Not apologetic.
Neutral.
I blow out a breath and lean my head back against the kitchen cabinets.
You pushed too hard. You showed up at her door like a lunatic. You led with marriage instead of hello.
Real Smart.
“Dad?” Maddie calls. “Are you listening?”
“Always,” I say automatically.
I'm not at all.
She squints at me. “You look like when I told you I needed poster board at 9 p.m.”
“That was a tactical surprise,” I say.
“It was for school.”
“Exactly.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s deciding whether to laugh.
I check the time.
Jenna’s in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. I can hear the clink of plates.
