Thank fuck she can’t read yet. This could’ve been bad.
I distract her with tickles, and fortunately, it works.
“All right, Daddy needs to get dressed. Go get some cereal. Then we’ll makespancakesfor breakfast.”
She jumps off the bed, bypassing Claire’s underwear, and slams the door on her way out. I wait until I hear her rummagingthrough the pantry before I address the brunette stowaway beneath my bed.
I exhale sharply, my heart hammering. “Coast is clear.”
When Claire crawls out from her hiding spot, completely naked, she does not look happy. In fact, she looks downright pissed, her face a little red, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I panicked.”
“It’s fine,” she mumbles unconvincingly.
I fetch her clothes, and she slips into her leggings and T-shirt, but she doesn’t bother putting on her bra and underwear. Instead, she balls them up in her fist. Like she can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Claire, I?—”
“You should go out first.” She’s turned toward me but not making eye contact.
I examine her face, trying to decipher her mood, but the expression she’s wearing is blank. She tosses my underwear and pants in my direction, then turns around so I can dress. Fuck, this is awkward.
Once I’ve snagged a clean shirt, I head for the door, not bothering to wash my face or brush my teeth. I pause, scrambling for words, but Bea calls for me again.
“Go,” Claire urges.
As the door clicks shut, I switch into my fatherly role.
Thankfully Bea doesn’t ask for more spelling lessons, and I promptly clean up the Jenga game, deliberately placing it on the highest shelf in the closet. The shirt I left behind last night gets tossed into the laundry room and I set our empty wineglasses in the sink.
I’ve just flipped the first batch of pancakes when Claire appears, fully dressed in casual clothes and with her wet hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head.
“Hi, Claire. Daddy’s makingspancakes.” Bea grins proudly.
“We can just call them pancakes,” I say. I pour myself a cup of coffee and get a second mug from the cabinet.
“Do you want chocolate chips or blueberries in yours?” Bea asks.
“Oh. No thank you, Dolly. I’m gonna go into the clinic,” she says, planting a kiss on top of my daughter’s head.
She freezes for a moment, hovering over Bea, and when our eyes lock, panic flashes across her face, as if she didn’t intend to kiss my daughter.
“You don’t work until this evening, though,” I say.
With one shoulder lifted, she scans the kitchen, her expression back to being blank. “I told Jessica she could go home early.”
My stomach sinks. What am I missing here? I’m considering how to ask her why she would cut her free weekend short in a way that wouldn’t garner Bea’s attention when my little girl triumphantly spills her orange juice, giving Claire the opportunity to slip out the front door.
She’s at the clinic the entire day. Typically she spends as much time outside as she can, yet I don’t see her once, and she doesn’t come home for dinner. I figure that once Bea is down for the night, we’ll have a conversation about what happened this morning, but one bedtime story turns into five, and then I accidentally fall asleep in her bed. It’s after nine when I wake with a tiny foot jammed into my ribs, and when I venture into the hall, Claire’s light is off.
Defeated, I retire to my room, only to discover the porch light is on. Peering through the blinds, I find Claire soaking in the hot tub. Her head is resting against the padded ledge, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She looks so peaceful. As much as I hate to disrupt her, I can’t leave things the way they are any longer.
Before I allow myself to rethink it, I slip outside.I’m besidethe tub before she hears me over the jets, and when she does, she launches upright and whisper-shouts an expletive.
“You’re like a fucking mouse, Greer.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
