“How much if I want to keep it all?” My voice catches. I clear my throat to distract from the sniffle I can’t help. If I’m sick of me crying, I’m sure Saylor is too. But then again I did just lose my best friend of two decades and inherited her unborn baby. Someone has to cut me some slack.
“How much?” Saylor parrots. “I don’t think it’s for sale, Celeste. Forrest let us borrow all these, but it has sentimental value. He probably wants it back. These are memories of Koda, you know?”
Suddenly a truth about parenting becomes crystal clear. It’s not just about creating memories my child will remember. It’s about creating moments that even I want to hold onto.
“That makes sense. I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me to ask.”
“Oh, hey now. No. Not to give myself too much credit, but the room looks great. I’d want to keep it as it is, too. If it were for sale, I’d make sure it was yours.”
I nod. “I know you would. Thank you.”
We move through the rest of the upstairs while Janet pokes around the main floor. She’s snooping, clearly. I heard the toilet flush at least five minutes ago. But I’m too lost in Saylor’s narration to care—casually, confidently, pointing out the bathroom renovations, the storage plans, the guest room that could serve as a playroom later. I most definitely prefer the private tour, because he’s talking about this home like he’s a part of it.
He talks about the neighborhood—the schools, the parks, the fact that the family next door has a daughter who’s two. He talks about the house like he’s lived in it his whole life, like its history is his history, and I realize, standing behind him in the hallway while Janet spies downstairs, that he learned the house the way he learns everything—not by being told, but by paying attention.
Downstairs again. The living room. Janet is already settled on the edge of the sofa with her portfolio perched on her knee. This is the interview portion, and I can feel my armor assembling—the executive posture, the measured answers, the woman who has sat across from investors and buyers and board members and never once let them see her sweat.
But Saylor sits next to me. Close. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can smell the paint and sawdust and soap, and his proximity does something to my armor that no boardroom has ever managed.It loosens. Not all the way. But enough. Just enough to make it ineffective.
Janet dives in without mercy, asking immediately about my work schedule. I explain the flexibility I’ve built-in—remote days, a VP who can run operations, the ability to restructure my calendar, pull back on travel, and ensure I’m around for a child’s needs, especially in their infancy. She asks about support systems. I list Rina, my parents—which is a stretch, I admit, the attorney. It sounds weak. My backup babysitter is my lawyer? Yikes. But what am I supposed to say? Don’t worry, I can afford a legion of nannies? That doesn’t sound very warm.
And then Janet looks at Saylor, and at me, and at the sliver of space between us on the sofa.
“I have to say,” Janet begins, pen hovering over her portfolio. “And I want to be transparent—my role is to observe and report, not to advise. But I will share that in cases where the court is deciding between two single guardians with similar financial profiles, the presence of a stable partnership can be significant.” She pauses, choosing her words with the care of someone who knows they’ll be remembered. “A two-parent household isn’t a requirement. But it is definitely noted that you two are together.”
I’m sorry…did she just say ‘together’?
Are we not giving off lady-of-the-house and hired-contractor vibes? Is it because Saylor has been giving me puppy-dog eyes since I arrived and I keep having hallucinations about him doing very sexy things to me in the back of that pickup in the driveway?
Her sentiment is rolling around the three of us like a grenade with the pin still in. Saylor’s posture shifts beside me—not a flinch, not a stiffening, but something more alert. Like a frequency change. Like he heard the same thing I did:if you’re together, you have an edge over Eleanor.
I should correct her. I should say: we’re not together. He’s a contractor I hired. He’s someone I’ve known for three weeks who happens to be extraordinarily kind and confusingly dedicated and sitting too close to me on a sofa in a nursery-green house that he painted with his own hands. I should say all of this because I am an honest person and because lying to a court evaluator is probably illegal and definitely inadvisable.
But I don’t. Because I look at the framed photo on the mantel—the one of me laughing at the shore—and I think about the nursery with the baby board books on the shelf and the words on the wall, and I think about Whitney standing on a sidewalk in an emerald dress asking me to be brave, and the truth is I am brave enough to accept the gift of advantage Saylor is giving me. I’m brave enough to fight dirty when it comes to Eleanor.
So I say nothing. And my silence draws a line that I can’t uncross.
“It’s clear you two have a strong dynamic,” Janet continues, glancing between us. “But I’ll note that in my experience, the court does take into account the perceived stability of the relationship.” Her eyes move to Saylor, then to me. “The age difference, for instance—and forgive my frankness—can sometimes read as, well, transitional. Especially to a judge who’s evaluating long-term suitability.”
Transitional.The word hits me like a slap. Not because it’s offensive—it’s clinical, it’s measured, it’s the word I’ve been using in my own head. Detour. Temporary. A hot and heavy romance that isn’t a destination. Janet just said out loud the thing I’ve been telling myself since Saylor walked into my office with a Rolex case and a collared shirt, and hearing it from someone else’s mouth exposes what it really is: a defense mechanism dressed up as wisdom.
“If transitional means fooling around…that is not us. We’re um, definitely end game. Yeah.” Saylor gives me a lunatic smilewhile pumping his eyebrows. “In it to win it.” His hand lands on my knee.
I feel the contact the way you feel a change in altitude—pressure, warmth, the immediate recalibration of every nerve in your body. His palm is broad and takes up the entire span of my knee. Beautiful, strong, callused working hands. Hands that could never belong to Greg because the only thing he knows how to work is a phone, calling somebody else to do the job he can’t.
“So you obviously plan to be a big part of the baby’s life.”
He glances at me, seemingly asking for permission. I give him a quick nod. Saylor lies under pressure much better than I do. Let’s call that an orange flag, not red. At least he’s lyingforme?
“Absolutely. Celeste and I are already arguing over baby names. I like Reed Bailey—gender-neutral, a little distinct. Celeste of course will want to name our baby something more regal and French—Sandrine, Fleur, Vivienne…the vetoes go on and on.”
“What’s wrong with Vivienne?” The question breaks free like word vomit. Me, getting defensive over names I didn’t come up with, momentarily forgetting we’re not actually naming this child together.
“Well, you get it,” Saylor says. “Typical lovers’ quarrels. How do you feel about Vivienne, Janet?”
She gives an odd smile. Like she’s trying to be kind, but she smells something sour. “Vivienne is a nice name in my opinion. But that’s not my bigger concern. Just for clarity on my report, what exactly are you guys? Casual? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Planning a future?”
“Which of those options helps our case?” I ask pointedly.
