“They could?—”
“We definitely will,” Rhodes cuts in, fully aware he’s testing my patience today for sport.“I heard you have an enchanting daughter.”
“She’s something,” Mara replies with a fondness that sits gently on her face.“Why don’t I start a pot of coffee?”
Julian waves her off.“Nah, I got it.Alec will take care of breakfast.”
Of course he volunteers me.Of course he assumes I’ll play along.
I step closer to Mara and brush a kiss against her cheek.“I can have them gone now.Just say it.”
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers, though the word feels more like a compromise than an agreement.
“We have a full day,” I remind her, letting the sentence hang between us.
It’s true.
I’m taking Mila to the museum, giving her something bright to look forward to, something that feels like childhood should feel.Meanwhile, Mara is going to her therapist—finally walking into a room she’s avoided for years.She thought she knew it all after spending three years with her therapist while she was sick.No such thing, obviously.
One event has nothing to do with the other.They’re separate things that each have to be dealt with—and are as important.
Breakfast seems more like an event than a regular meal by the time we’re serving.Mila is delighted with the company.
Julian talks about his career in the ’90s—back when he lived on the road, playing college circuits and small theaters, carving a place for himself in the adult alternative scene.He’s a singer–songwriter at heart, emotional and unfiltered.
Rhodes is a classical pianist, famous in his own right, though his audience falls into a different world from Julian’s.People adore all the Wilder siblings for reasons that never make sense to me.Even Alfie—who isn’t here this morning because he disappears whenever his on-and-off girlfriend resurfaces—found fame after stumbling through soap operas in the early days.Now he’s acting in films and his name shows up in the same conversations people use for Gabe Colt.
By nine, a driver waits downstairs for Mara , ready to take her to therapy.She stands on the sidewalk with her coat wrapped around her, offering Mila one last hug before climbing into the car.She waves through the window, trying to look brave.Then she’s gone, and I’m left with her daughter staring up at me, trusting me far more than she should.I slide behind the wheel and take us toward the museum.
“Why is Mommy meeting us there?”Mila asks once we’re halfway down the block.I’m sure she’s been holding this question in.I should have expected this.This child is inquisitive to the bone.
“She has an appointment,” I say, hoping that might satisfy her.It doesn’t.Of course it doesn’t.
“Why don’t I have an appointment?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” I answer, because honesty feels safer than inventing something, and I’m in no liberty to explain what’s happening.“But you and I will have more fun than she will.I promise.”
Mila doesn’t seem convinced.She stares out the window, her voice small.“But will we?I’ve never been without Mommy.”
“That’s not true,” I gently remind her.“You go to ballet, karate, all your activities without her.She doesn’t sit on the mat next to you.”
“Oh.Right.And swimming.”She pauses, then leans forward in her seat.“Why don’t we have swimming today?”
“That’s a Saturday thing until you pass your strokes and they move you to the weekday schedule.”The knowledge flows out before I can stop it, and it hits me—just how much I’ve been paying attention.
Mila studies me, taking that in.“If you don’t feel comfortable, we can go back home,” I offer.
“No,” she says quickly.“I just don’t want Mommy to miss anything.And we don’t have a camera.”
“You need us to buy a camera?”I ask, trying to figure out if she’s negotiating or simply thinking aloud.With kids, it’s impossible to tell.
“Could we?”She brightens a little.“You can rent it, like those bikes from ...somewhere.The place where I learned how to ride a bike.I might’ve forgotten how, though.I don’t practice.”
“We can find you a bike.”
“Mom said we can’t.We don’t have a backyard.”She shrugs as if that’s the final authority in her world.
“That sounds logical.”
