I’d made him prance. Actually prance, hooves and all, in a circle around the birthday girl while the children sang a made-up song about rainbow friendship. He’d done it with the grim determination of a man marching to his own execution, but he’d done it.
When I’d announced that Sparkle needed to demonstrate his “magical unicorn sneeze” and promptly thrown a handful of glitter directly into his face, he’d just stood there, blinking through the sparkles, and said, “Gesundheit to me, I guess.”
The children had howled with laughter. Leo had looked at me like he was contemplating the various ways glitter could be weaponized. But he hadn’t actually acted on any of them.
And then there was the moment near the end when one of the kids—a tiny girl named Addie with pigtails and a sticky lollipop—had tugged on his tail and asked if he could take her flying.
He’d crouched to her level, wobbling slightly on those ridiculous hooves, and explained very seriously that his wings were “in the shop for repairs” but that if she believed hard enough, she could fly in her dreams tonight.
Addie had considered this, nodded, and then wiped her lollipop on his sleeve.
He hadn’t even flinched.
Afterward, while the kids were lining up to head to the aquarium, he caught my eye from across the room. I’d been bracing myself for the inevitable cutting remark, but he’d just shaken his head and said, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Immensely,” I’d confirmed.
And he’d almost smiled. Almost.
That’s the thing that’s making it so hard to stay angry. I pushed and pushed, waiting for his patience to run out and the real Leo to emerge—an impatient man, dismissive, above it all.
But somewhere between the prancing, the glitter assault, and the farmyard impressions, I started to wonder if I’ve been reading him backward. What if the three-piece suit and the boardroom posture are the performance, and the man who crouches to talk to a sticky-fingered five-year-old about dream-flying is what’s underneath?
This was all much easier when I thought he was just a suit with good bone structure and a god complex.
“I don’t think I’ve got the energy to rummage up anything edible from the kitchen, so how about some takeout?” Leo asks as he settles into the armchair.
“Takeout sounds good.”
He pulls out his phone. “What’s good around here?”
“There’s a Thai place two streets over. Surin’s. They’re excellent.”
“What do you want?”
“Pad thai, extra peanuts, obviously.”
“Obviously.” He taps at his phone. “Anything else?”
“Get yourself whatever you want,” I say generously. “After all, you’re paying.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’m just saying. Get the fancy curry. Live a little.”
He gives me a look that suggests living a little is not high on his priority list, then returns to the phone. “Spring rolls for you as well, or just for me?”
“Who orders Thai without spring rolls?”
“Just checking. Some people are ambivalent about spring rolls.”
“Those people are wrong, Leo. Fundamentally wrong.”
His mouth does something complicated. Like it wants to smile but hasn’t filed the proper paperwork.
I feel a small, traitorous flicker of satisfaction at that. Making Leo almost smile is starting to feel like an achievement worth documenting.
Leo places the order, and as he puts his phone on the table, the glitter on his face glints.
