Page 13 of Freefall

The moment I open my eyes, I’m aware that I’m not alone. I feel warm little puffs of air against the back of my neck. Looking down, I see her small hands splayed across my hip, her tiny fingers curled in a loose fist.

Daisy always slept in her own bed back in Denver, except when she was sick or had a nightmare, but since we moved here, she’s been climbing into mine most nights. She doesn’t wake me and barely makes a noise, so I don’t usually know she’s here until I wake up. I can’t feeling a pang of guilt every time it happens.

I took her away from her home, her school, the only life she had ever known. I know I mostly did it for my brother, so I could be closer to family and help out, but I would be lying if I said that was the only reason.

Turning toward Daisy, I watch the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps peacefully.

We should tell him, I whisper.

But what if he doesn’t care? What if it only makes everything worse?

Her brow crinkles slightly, and I smooth it with my thumb as her eyes slowly peel open. “Mommy.”

Her voice is sleepy with that hint of confusion that accompanies waking up.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can we have pancakes for breakfast?”

I let out a soft laugh. “Of course. It’s Sunday.”

Sunday pancakes have been our tradition since she started eating solid foods—even before that, if you count all the times I strapped her into the baby carrier and walked down the street to Aunt Tessa’s so she could fill me up on carbs when I was breastfeeding.

The corners of her lips turn up in a lazy smile. I know that smile. Not because I’ve seen it for the past eight years, but because I saw it before then. I used to long for it, search for it, fill with pride when I made it appear.

“And work on my books?” she asks groggily, the last word caught in a yawn.

“Yes, Daisy. We can work on your books.”

Daisy decided at the age of six that she was going to be an author when she grew up, but didn’t want to wait that long. She’s been stapling mismatched pieces of paper together ever since. She writes, and I help her illustrate them.

Dragging myself out of bed, I get a pot of coffee going and take out all of the ingredients I’ll need for the pancakes. I open the fridge to grab the milk, and there it is. My damn water bottle. I actually remembered to drink yesterday, so I filled it back up and put it in the fridge. Now it’s taunting me.

When did you fill that up, Harper?

Why does the mere memory of his authoritative tone make my knees go weak? I need to get it together. I also need to email Emory and let her know I can't be her wedding photographer because I used to date her fiancé back in college. Then, I decided to run across the country and never look back, but I still have feelings for him. Oh, and he’ll always have a part of me, and I definitely have a part of him, so watching him marry another woman might be the worst torture I can imagine.

Okay, maybe I’m not going to tell her all that. A small white lie won’t hurt in this case. I forgot I already have another wedding booked that day. Or I’ll be out of town.

I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

Today, I’m going to enjoy the day off with my daughter.

As soon as I have that thought, Daisy comes bouncing in from the hallway. “Can I help?”

“Of course. Why don’t you get the bowl and spoon, and then you can mix while I pour in the ingredients?”

“Okay!” She scampers over to the cabinet with the bowls and pulls out the one on the bottom, causing them all to crash to the floor. Completely unfazed, she takes the one she wants and puts the rest back. It takes a lot to rattle my daughter.

Satisfied with her bowl choice, she grabs a wooden spoon from the drawer and skips back over to me. We work together measuring, pouring, and mixing the ingredients until it’s time to cook the pancakes. I put a pat of butter in the hot pan and ladle in a few small scoops first. Daisy likes “mini” pancakes, as she calls them.

After we both polish off a full stack each, Daisy runs off to gather her book-writing supplies.

“Which one are you working on today?” I ask as I kneel in front of the coffee table where she has papers, markers, colored pencils, and crayons scattered about.

“This is part of my holiday series,” she tells me. “I’m going to start on the Halloween one.”

“That’s a good idea.” Halloween isn’t for another month and a half, but it’s never too early to get in the spirit. It’s my favorite holiday, and I’ve always gone all-out since having Daisy, from our very first one together when I was a princess, and she was a pea. I had told myself it was based solely on the fairy tale and had nothing to do with my favorite movie—former favorite movie, that is.