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She shakes her head. Fiercely independent, like her mother.

“Okay. Well, if you need me, I’ll be sleeping in Daddy’s room. How about in the morning we’ll get up early and make pancakes?” I make the offer, even feeling like gravity’s been pulling on me extra hard this week. Right now I could sleep for at least twenty-four hours.

She brightens. “With chocolate chips?”

“And bananas.” If I happen to know Dean will want pancakes with banana and chocolate chips too, that’s nothing significant.

“Yay.” With that, she snuggles under the covers. I turn on the smart home device on her nightstand, filling the room with gentle nature sounds.

“Uncle Mike? I like the thunderstorms.”

“Okay, princess.” Thunderstorms. Who the hell finds the dangerous sounds of nature relaxing?

After I’ve given her one more kiss on the forehead, I exit the room to find another text from Dean.

Thank you, Mike. Thank you for taking care of her. I really appreciate it.

My fingers tighten, the sides of the phone biting my skin. All of this would be easier if he weren’t so disgustingly grateful. When he’s grateful like this, it’s impossible to hate him.

It hits me then—I’m grateful to him, too. He could’ve chosen to keep me out of Ella’s life. Out of his.

I start to send a reply saying so. He gave me something sincere, and I should do the same. After a few stops and starts, I still can’t get the words to come out right. I delete the message and settle myself down to sleep in his room.

The scent of coconuts and spicy aftershave on his pillow follows me into sleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dean

When I let myself into the apartment after another long night, I’m assaulted by delicious, homey smells. Cinnamon and chocolate. From the kitchen I hear clinking noises and the deep rumble of Michael’s voice.

Until Ella was born and Michael started showing up to do things with her, I hadn’t seen a homemade meal since my mother left. Even that was so long ago that every memory is nothing more than a blurry fragment. There was this casserole thing with canned biscuits on top though, that I still miss.

And pancakes.

“See, the trick is to wait until the bubbles form.” He illustrates by flipping a pancake while Ella sits on a nearby stool, watching.

I need to remember that. Every time I try to make them from scratch they come out awful. Either burned or undercooked and wrinkled, sticking to themselves.

I could ask Mike for help, but I feel like I have to choose those moments. Help from him comes with a cost, to my pride if nothing else. The way Ella claps excitedly, though? Maybe I should ask him for more help with the cooking.

It aches, the way he is with her. So natural and easy while I’m over here listening to hours of parenting audiobooks to try and know the right things to do or say.

“Okay, so where was I?” Michael asks as he pours a ladleful of batter.

“He’s not that into you!” Ella laughs at the idea.

One she can’t possibly understand. What the heck are they talking about?

“Right. Okay. So, if he asks for your help with his spelling words and then doesn’t want to sit by you at lunch? He’s not that into you. If he shares his snacks at lunch but expects you to share your snacks in return? He’s transactional. We call that a red flag.”

“Uncle Mike, what’s transactional? And what’s a red flag?”

Good flipping grief. I knock on the open door to make my presence known. “Mike, she’s not going to understand what any of that means.”

For that matter, I barely do. Then again, my little girl will probably be smarter than me by next year. In so many ways she already is.

“It’s about planting seeds, Dean. You’re always worrying about her growing up to be a strong and independent woman. This is how it starts. Letting her know when someone’s wasting her time is part of that.”