Page 111 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

The move itself is messy and fast and strangely happy. Maya comes armed with labels and has opinions on everything. Daniel arrives with coffee and a warning not to lift anything heavier than a lamp, then immediately lifts three boxes himself and complains about my taste in books. Athena organizes the kitchen first, which I take personally until she points out that people need plates before philosophy.

Ivy transfers into the Boston branch the following Monday.

The first morning she wears the new uniform, she stands in the hallway while Athena fixes her collar and I crouch to tie her shoes. She looks between us like she’s checking the picture for continuity.

“You’re both coming,” she says.

“Yes,” Athena replies.

“Obviously,” I add.

She nods once, satisfied, then lets us walk her to the car.

At the school entrance, she takes two steps away then turns back and asks, “So this is my real school now.”

Athena looks at her, then at me, then back at Ivy. “If you want it to be.”

Ivy thinks about that for all of one second. “I do.”

Then she walks inside without another word, brave and steady and entirely herself. Athena stands beside me on the pavement after the doors close. For a moment neither of us says anything.

Then she hooks two fingers through mine.

The weeks that follow aren’t perfect. I still have bruises fading in ugly colors. Athena still gets quiet sometimes when an old memory catches her off guard. Ivy still asks questions that stop both of us in our tracks, usually while eating cereal.

One night at dinner, she looks up from her bowl and asks, “So if he’s my dad now, does that mean I get to be extra annoying to him?”

Athena nearly chokes laughing. I set my fork down and answer with total seriousness. “I’m afraid that right came pre-installed.”

Ivy beams.

Later, after dishes, Athena corners me in the kitchen with her back against the counter and her mouth one inch from mine and says, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

I rest my hands on either side of her hips. “No. I’m enjoying it exactly enough.”

She kisses me like she doesn’t believe in moderation either.

That part of us comes back differently now.

There are nights she crawls into bed after Ivy is asleep and presses her cold feet against my legs just to make me swear. There are mornings I catch her watching me make coffee in one of my shirts and no pants, and the look in her eyes is enough to derail any responsible plan I had for the next hour.

But the best part is the ordinary erosion of distance.

Her hair on my pillow. My mug in her hand. Ivy shouting for both of us from the other room since she can’t find the blue folder that is, inevitably, under her own elbow. The sound of Athena laughing with Maya on speaker while I pack lunches. The knowledge that when I come out of a shower, there are two people in this apartment who expect me to still be here.

Hawthorne continues to email.

I answer eventually, cleanly and without apology. I’m stepping back from the full-time return. Consulting only, limited hours, remote where possible. They push. I decline. The board chair tries prestige. I tell him prestige is a weak substitute for a life I actually want.

Athena reads that draft over my shoulder one evening and says, “That is the most expensive love letter I’ve ever seen.”

I turn in my chair and pull her between my knees. “You should hear the verbal ones.”

She smiles down at me. “That can be arranged.”

By the fifth week, everything has started to feel less like recovery and more like structure.

Nate is still negotiating. Cindy is still pretending she can bargain with consequences. Meredith has rolled fully and is giving prosecutors enough to keep herself useful. None of that vanishes, yet it no longer controls the shape of our mornings.