“Obviously. Let’s go.”
• • •
The ice cream shop has too many flavors and a toppings case that would make a dentist weep. Maisie peers through the glass, studying her options.
“Cotton candy,” she decides. “With rainbow sprinkles. And gummy bears.”
“Solid choice.”
I order her a kid’s cup and get myself salted caramel because I’m a grown-up and I can. We grab a booth by the window, and Maisie attacks her ice cream like she hasn’t eaten in days. There’s a spot of blue on her nose within thirty seconds.
“So,” she says between bites. “Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”
I choke on my salted caramel.
“Um.” I grab a napkin, buying time. “That’s... we’re... your dad and I work together.”
“Hannah thinks you’re his girlfriend.”
“She does?”
“She said, ‘I think she might be his girlfriend,’ on the phone to someone.” Maisie shrugs, unbothered by the eavesdropping admission. “I have good ears.”
“Apparently.”
“So are you?”
How do you explain situationship dynamics to a six-year-old? How do you explain them to yourself when you don’t even know what’s happening?
“Your dad and I are figuring things out,” I say carefully. “We like each other. But it’s complicated.”
Maisie considers this, spoon hovering mid-air. “Because you work together?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Grown-up stuff.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to explain things.”
“You’re too smart for your own good.”
She grins, and there’s a chunk of gummy bear stuck to her front tooth. “Daddy says that too.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute. The afternoon sun slants through the window, catching the glitter in her nail polish—purple, slightly chipped.
“Do you have kids?” she asks suddenly.
The question lands somewhere soft and unprotected. “No, I don’t.”
“How come?”
“I guess... I just haven’t yet. I’ve been busy with school and work.” I trail off, unsure how to finish.
“Do you want kids?”
I look at her—this earnest, curious girl with ice cream on her chin and questions that cut right to the bone—and something in my chest aches.
