For the first time all day, the thought of running didn’t even cross my mind. And the three of us—four, if you counted our baby girl—had had quite a day.
After Brooks had cornered me by the pantry and used his BDE, aka “big dad energy,” to convince me to stay, I had nearly bolted again when I’d realized the state of my clothes.
My leggings and panties were absolutely wrecked after yesterday’s . . . activities. But that didn’t faze Brooks. If anything, it inspired him. I was still trying to recover from my mortification when Brooks had wordlessly traded a pair of his sweatpants, the drawstring cinched tight at the waist, for my soiled clothing, which he had immediately tossed into the washing machine with the rest of his laundry. Now, I wouldneverbe able to shake his delicious scent from my body.
The lemon-blueberry pancakes had been next level. After the first batch, that was, which Brooks had accidentally burned, justlike Carolina had predicted. Afterward, the three of us had piled on his oversized couch, sticky plates balanced on knees, cartoons humming in the background while Carolina filled me in on how to feed her sourdough starter, and I schooled her on why Velma was objectively the best member of the Mystery Inc. team.
From there, it was ontoThe Great British Baking Show, where I learned quickly that Carolina was as ruthless a judge as Paul Hollywood. Only, she gave out hugs rather than handshakes.
Just like me. We were both huggers.
Through it all, Brooks had just laughed, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his hand toying with the edge of my shirt—well, his shirt—in a way that felt both casual and deeply intentional. Like he wanted me to know that he was close, but not as close as either of us wanted.
It was the best kind of torture.
And now, with the sun sinking lower and the day winding down, Carolina had decided she was finally old enough to give her dad a manicure.
I was the tiniest bit jealous.
I couldn't remember the last time someone else had painted my nails. Even back in high school, it had never been like this. I would have given anything for my mom to sit with me like Brooks was with Carolina. To let me curl up against her shoulder and feel her arms tight around me while we picked out colors and pretended like everything was okay.
That ache in my chest—the one that never really went away when I thought about what I hadn't had growing up—softened when I let my hand drift down to the curve of my belly. My daughter wasn’t going to feel that emptiness. Not ever.
She was going to know what it felt like to have arms around her, steady and safe. To be chosen, every single day. To laugh in the kitchen while pancakes burned and cuddle on the couch beneath blankets and sticky plates.
She was going to have what I never had, because I was going to give it to her.
I was going to be different. For her.
Carolina clapped and sat back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”
Brooks showed off his pink-and-blue glittered fingers. It was hard to believe that those were the same massive fingers that had been inside of me yesterday. And this morning.
“What do you think, kitten?”
I bit back a laugh. “Pink and blue are definitely your colors.”
Carolina crawled across the towel, fishing in her little bag of polish. “Time to do your toes.”
Panic flitted across his face.
“Pass me a green, Carolina,” I said sweetly, leaning back against the couch. He shook his head but sat back, resigned.Smart man.
For a minute, it was all laughter and glitter and the faint squeak of polish brushes against Brooks’s toenails. But while I watched him play along, grumbling and rolling his eyes, yet never once pulling away, I couldn’t help but feel something stir low in my belly.
This wasn’t just a man humoring his daughter. This was the man—theonlyman—who had shown up for me again and again, even when I hadn’t asked him to. Even when I had tried to push him away. Both times. And now, here he was, letting his daughter paint him like a canvas without a single complaint.
Maybe it was timeIshowed up forhim.
I cleared my throat lightly. “Hey, Carolina?”
“Mm-hmm?” she answered, tongue poking out as she carefully applied a coat of purple glitter to Brooks’s big toe.
“For your birthday party,” I began, watching Brooks’s head lift slightly at my words. “I was thinking, what do you think about letting each of your friends have their own mini cake todecorate? That way everyone gets to make something special that they can take home, and you can still have your big cake to eat, too?”
Her eyes lit up like the Eiffel Tower. “Mini cakes? Like onThe Great British Baking Show?”
“Exactly like that,” I said, smiling.
