“I figured I’d wait until I got back to Oliver’s.”
“That doesn’t seem right. You made dinner, you should eat with us.” I glance at my daughter, knowing exactly what her response will be. “Right, El?”
She dances on the tips of her toes. “Yeah, you need to eat with us!”
Kia turns and stares at me before looking at Elody. The pleading expression on her face is the clincher.
A smile lifts her lips. “Okay, sure.”
I grab another plate from the cabinet and silverware from the drawer. Once the pasta is ready, we sit down. I can only shake my head as I watch my daughter eat. It’s like she’s a feral animal who’s starving half to death.
“It’s so good!” she announces, shoveling another bite into her mouth.
The smile that blooms across Kia’s face is enough to give me pause. It takes effort to force my gaze to my plate and then around the room. Anywhere but the blonde seated across from me.
Once we’re done, Kia picks up a napkin and gently wipes sauce away from Elody’s chin. A lump rises in my throat when my little girl leans toward her, patiently allowing her to do it.
Bedtime turns out to be easier than it’s been in months. Kia and Elody negotiate four books, two more than usual, and I get the sense that if Elody had begged for six, Kia would have given in. I linger in the hallway, leaning against the wall, close enough to hear what’s going on but far enough back to give them space. I tell myself I’m doing what any father would do by monitoring the situation, but after ten minutes, it becomes obvious that Kia is capable of handling my daughter.
When I peek in the room, I find them curled up together on the bed, voices low, turning pages slowly. There’s no rush to get this over with, only patience. I continue keeping my distance, careful not to step any closer than necessary before forcing myself to the living room to wait.
When Kia finally emerges twenty minutes later, Elody’s door clicking shut behind her, the penthouse has settled into an unfamiliar stillness.
The quiet that follows her into the living room feels charged in a way I’m unable to pinpoint, and I become aware of how close we are when she stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can see all the questions in her eyes. Close enough to feel the weight of everything I’m deliberately not saying as I stay where I am, holding the distance between us like a line I can’t afford to cross.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
She nods. “It’s an arrangement that works for me too.”
I search my brain for something to say as we walk toward the entryway, but nothing comes to mind. The silence between us feels awkward in a way I’m not used to navigating. I reach for her coat instead, holding it open as she slips her arms into the sleeves. My fingers remain at her shoulders a beat too long, the contact brief but charged as I catch another whiff of her faint, delicate scent.
That’s all it takes to remind myself to take a step in retreat. There’s no reason I should want to hold on to this moment. When it comes down to it, I shouldn’t want anything from this woman at all.
As she steps into the elevator, I hear myself say, “Text me when you get back.” Embarrassed, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans before adding gruffly, “Just so I know you made it home safely.”
I don’t want her thinking there’s anything more to it than that.
She smiles. “I will.”
Once the doors slide shut, the penthouse is plunged into silence. I stand there longer than necessary, breathing in the lingering scent of garlic from dinner and listening to the faint echo of Elody’s laughter that still hangs in the air.
The space feels different now.
Shifted in a way I can’t explain, like something’s been moved without my permission. And I have the sneaking suspicion that it has everything to do with Kia Van Doren.
9
Kia
By the time the elevator doors slide shut, my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I lean against the mirrored wall, letting my head rest against it while I replay the last ten seconds on a loop.
Text me when you get back. Just so I know you made it home safely.
The words burrow in my chest, warming parts of me I didn’t realize had gone cold.
As the elevator descends to the lobby, I’m not counting floors or fighting nausea. My body feels tired in a good way. It’s fatigued from a full day of activity instead of wrung out by anxiety and crying in the bathroom.
Elody’s giggles echo in my thoughts, her face sticky with sauce and pride from helping cook the meal. My lips curve before I can stop them. She’s a sweet kid. I have no idea how long this babysitting gig will last, but I know one thing—it’ll give me something to focus on other than the way my life has fallen apart.
