Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Stepping away, needing the space to start a gradual separation—physically and emotionally—I ask, “I can feed him if you have something you need to—”
“I don’t have anything to do.”
“Oh.” I nod, realizing distance won’t make my heart stop beating. Losing them will. “Okay. Well . . .” I shove my hands in my pockets. I watch as she sets him in his high chair and moves around the kitchen. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. “Am I in the way?”
“No,” she replies, coming so close to me that it’s tempting to kiss her while I can. “You’re not in the way, Noah.” She takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen with her. “After feeding him, we can be as busy or lazy as we want. It’s Sunday.” The way she includes me, as if that’s the only natural assumption, shifts my mood to a better space. She stops suddenly. “I almost forgot. My mom is going to watch Maxwell for me tonight.” Looking up from the dish she’s preparing him, she waggles her eyebrows. Wonder where she got that move. I chuckle. “She said she can take him for the night.”
I’ve not met her mother, but she sounds like an important part of Liv’s and Max’s lives. “What are you thinking?”
“I think we should take her up on the offer. It’s a long drive to the play, but we wouldn’t have to worry about returning by a certain time.”
She sets a plate of food in front of the little man and then turns to me, where I’ve sat across the table from her. Maybe it’s the lighting or the sun shining in her eyes, but it looks a lot like excitement highlighting her eyes. The green is brighter, but the gold glimmers.
Her hair’s in a mess on top of her head, and she’s wearing no makeup, but she doesn’t need it. Still wearing the T-shirt from this morning, she’s added a pair of shorts. She’s fucking stunning, making my heart hurt.
“She has a full nursery setup,” she starts. “And is on the Upper Westside.”
“Sounds like there’s a question for me in there.”
“Since we’re driving a long way tonight and it will be late, I was thinking,” she says, her fingers fidgeting just at the edge of the table. “Maybe you could stay here again tonight? With me?” I don’t have time for a breath, much less a reply, when she adds, “You can say no. We both have work in the morn—”
“Yes.”
She searches my eyes as if she didn’t hear me. “Yes, you’ll stay?”
I nod, not keeping her in suspense. “I’ll stay.”
“Even if Maxwell’s not here?”
I reach over and rest my hand on the table in front of her, palm side up. Looking between my hand and my face, she slips her hand into mine with the sweetest smile. “Even if he’s not here. I want to stay with you.”
Her fingers lie flat against my hand, and we look at them. Hers are so much smaller, but the feelings this connection evokes is bigger than the two combined. When a banana slice slaps against the skin of her neck, causing her to flinch, and then slowly peels back and falls to the floor, I don’t see anger come over her. She laughs.
Quick to straighten her face, she pulls her hand away and angles back toward him. “Do we throw food, Maxwell?”
He’s nodding like a little terror high on sugar.
“No,” she says, “we don’t throw food.”
His head bops around on his neck as if he’s just discovered he can move it. She covers both his hands in hers, stilling him, and repeats the question as calmly as the first time. “Maxwell?”
Looking at me, he says, “Dada.”
“You’re on your own, kid.” I stay quiet to let her handle it because she’s the expert.
She asks, “Are you going to eat the food, Maxwell, or throw the food? If you’re going to throw it, I’ll put it away until you’re ready to eat.”
“Foo,” he calls out.
The tension from her expression softens, and she smiles at him. “Okay, food.”
When she turns back to me, I ask, “How did you learn to do that? I have no idea how to discipline or even talk to him.”
“You’re doing great. He loves when you talk to him. For me, I try to give him choices to let him make the decision on how to proceed. Sometimes it works out. He did great just then. He let me know what he wants to do.” On the tail end of a roll of laughter, she adds, “Sometimes he throws the entire plate.”
“You make it look easy, but I know it’s not.” Getting this insight stirs emotions I’m unfamiliar with. Unsettled, I stand, crossing my arms over my chest, and stare out a window. With so much on my mind, I think about my mom and how she would have been the first I told under normal circumstances. I turn back to her. “I want to tell my family.”