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“Handsome, too,” the aide with the tray cart says. “And tall. And kind. Last time he was here, I had my foot in a walking boot, and he made a point of asking me how I was healing. So nice.”

The aide—Charlotte, from her name tag—has stars in her eyes that make my jaw tight. Good fucking grief.

“He’s not that nice.”

My mother sighs. “Michael, I understand your issues with Dean, but it isn’t healthy to hold a grudge forever. And you don’t want to let your issues with Dean affect your ability to spend time with your niece.”

“I see Ella plenty.”

She gives me “the look.” “Baby, what happens when Ella gets old enough to pick up on the tension between you? What are you going to say when she asks why you’re so hard on her father?”

“That he killed her mother.” No, of course I wouldn’t, really.

She scoffs. “Nobody could have predicted what happened.”

Maybe not. I picture Dean on his knees in front of me, face pressed to the floor as he kisses my feet in apology. I keep telling myself I hate him, but when we’re alone in his room at night, my feelings aren’t as clear.

Still. Maybe my mother’s decided not to hold a grudge, but I’m not ready to let mine go.

If I can’t blame Dean for what happened, then what do I have left?

CHAPTER SIX

Dean

In the last six years, I’ve gotten used to being around rich people, even though it’s clear I don’t exactly fit into their world. Even when I put on a suit and go as someone’s arm candy to a charity gala, I’m not expected to do anything but stand there and look pretty while the “adults” talk around me.

Adults who act as if things like having to replace their gardener and maid are actual problems, but whatever.

As I take a tour around this fancy-pants private school I’m hoping to get Ella into, I realize I’ve only ever scratched the surface of that world. There are things here I never imagined existing in a school for children. My school didn’t have nets on the basketball hoops. This place has a waterfall and ‌“imagination stations.”

“This place is something else,” I say to the director showing me around.

In all the time Ella’s been at her current school, I’ve never spoken to most of the admin folks face-to-face, and now here’s the person in charge of the school coming out to greet me personally for this “discovery meeting” I scheduled.

“We like ‌all parents and prospective parents to feel at home here.” The lady pats my arm, not for the first time.

Is this lady a touchy-feely type, or does the tuition here include extra personal service? Honestly, it feels weird. If I weren’t here for my kid, I’d be back in the car already.

The school goes up to eighth grade. So far I’ve seen a track and a gym with modern equipment, not just a bunch of deflated dodgeballs. The multimedia center is shiny. Each class is about half the size of Ella’s current homeroom. They’ve got brand-new musical instruments, and if she wants to learn one, they include lessons for free.

Ella seemed real thrilled about learning violin. Until today I had no idea they made ’em for kids her size.

As we pass by a group of rooms I’m told are practice spaces, someone’s playing fast on a piano. Not that I’m any kind of expert, but it’s really good. When I peek inside, there’s a boy around Ella’s age seated on a bench, playing while an older lady claps her hands to keep the time or whatever. I’m honestly speechless.

“Ella definitely seems excited.” I glance around, looking for her. Soon as we got here, another woman whisked her off to meet some kids she might go to class with.

I’m sure it’s fine. It’s a school. Still, I’m never completely comfortable having her out of my sight, especially with people I don’t know.

“Let’s talk in my office for a bit.” The woman links her arm with mine. I still can’t help but feel she’s acting awfully familiar for a school tour. Maybe this is how people with money behave?

“Sure thing, uh…” Heck. I’ve forgotten her name. I have to hear new ones a lot before they stick in my head.

After we weave our way through an office with all that standard office stuff (shelves, copy machine, coffee maker), the lady in charge sits behind a heavy-looking desk and leans back.

Belinda Baker. There’s a little plaque sitting on her desk.

“So, Mr. Ness. I applaud you for your interest in our school. I think it could be a wonderful environment for Ella.”