Page 25

Maverick: Thank you.

Two words.

That’s all.

But something about them makes my chest ache.

I picture him in some hotel room hundreds of miles away, missing bedtime. Missing the book. Missing the moment his son’s breathing goes slow and even. And then I picture him typing two words to a stranger who got to be there instead.

Me: You don’t have to thank me.

His reply comes immediately.

Maverick: Yes, I do.

I chew my bottom lip.

Me: You really don’t. He is why I’m here. This is what we agreed to.

I don’t give him a chance to argue.

Me: We read the dinosaur book four times.

Maverick: Only four?

Me: Is that not normal?

Maverick: His record is eleven.

Me: Good God.

Maverick: You married into this.

I freeze. Then I laugh because he’s right. But it’s the first time either of us has joked about it.

Me: I really should have read the fine print.

Maverick: You did.

Me: Damn it.

I set the phone down and lean against the counter, still smiling.

He’s right about that too. I read every page of that contract. Twice with my own lawyer, and once more by myself at Grandma’s kitchen table the night before I signed it, with a cup of tea going cold beside me and the house so quiet I could hear the clock over the stove.

Thirteen years and eight months. A notice period. A stipend. Clauses for every possible thing that could go wrong.

There wasn’t a clause for this, though. For a little boy falling asleep against my side. For his father saying thank you for something as simple as reading a bedtime story.

My phone buzzes once more against the granite.

Maverick: Goodnight, Noelle.

I look at it for a long time.

Then I type Goodnight back, turn off the kitchen lights, and go upstairs past Shiloh’s door, where the moon is still glowing in the dark.

chapter