“We’re not looking at each other funny,” I insist.
“You are. It’s the same way Sophie’s mom looks at Sophie’s stepdad,” she states before taking a big bite of pasta. “Right before they kiss.”
I’m going to need more wine.
“So,” Tori says brightly, clearly desperate for a subject change. “Maisie, tell me more about the recital. What are you dancing to?”
It works. Maisie launches into an elaborate description of her dance routine, complete with demonstrations of specific moves that nearly knock over her juice. By the time she’s done explaining the “very important twirl at the end,” the tension has eased, and we’re back to something that feels almost normal.
Almost.
Because underneath the easy conversation, I’m hyper-aware of everything—the way Tori laughs at Maisie’s jokes, the way she asks follow-up questions that prove she’s actually listening, and the way she looks at my daughter like she matters—like her recital, hamster facts, and opinions about pasta shapes are worth paying attention to.
Sienna never looked at her like that. Not once.
My throat tightens.
Dinner continues. Maisie asks Tori her favorite dinosaur (T-Rex, though she admits the Pachycephalosaurus has “great energy”). She asks what Tori wanted to be when she grew up (a marine biologist, then a teacher, then a physical therapist). She asks if Tori can do a cartwheel (yes, but not indoors, a rule Maisie finds deeply unfair).
And through all of it, I just watch—watch Tori charm my daughter without even trying, watch Maisie open up in ways sherarely does with new people, and watch this connection forming between the three of us that I didn’t plan for, didn’t expect, and definitely don’t know how to handle.
“I’m done,” Maisie announces, pushing her plate away. “Can we have dessert?”
“You had ice cream two hours ago.”
“That was a snack. This is dessert. Totally different.”
“She’s got you there,” Tori says.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Hers. Obviously.” She grins at me. “Girls stick together.”
Maisie beams. “Yeah, Daddy. Girls stick together.”
I’m outnumbered, and honestly? I don’t hate it.
We compromise on half a cookie each—chocolate chip, from the batch Hannah made—and then it’s cleanup time. Tori starts clearing plates before I can stop her.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” She’s already at the sink, rinsing dishes. “You cooked. Well, you ordered. Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“Close enough.”
Maisie disappears to use the bathroom, and suddenly we’re alone in the kitchen, standing side by side at the sink, and the air between us changes. It thickens.
“She likes you,” I say quietly.
“I like her too.” Tori hands me a plate to load into the dishwasher. “She’s amazing, Zay. You’ve done such a good job with her.”
The compliment lands somewhere soft. “I just try not to screw it up.”
“You’re not screwing it up.” She turns to look at me, and we’re close—too close for two people who are supposed to be figuring things out. “She’s happy. She’s confident. She knows she’s loved. That’s all you.”
My hand finds her hip before I can think better of it. She doesn’t pull away.
