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Watching Jackson readHarry Potter and the Half-Blood Princeto Fiona, my heart melts. He’s so good with her, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why her mother would leave either one of them. I don’t understand how shecouldleave.
I have trouble leaving sometimes at the end of the day because being with the two of them resembles the kind of family I’ll want someday, and it takes an extra effort to remind myself to focus on my priorities—earning money, establishing myself in the career I want. My hopes and dreams for my romantic life and the family I want can wait.
Besides, it’s not like the scene in front of me will ever be mine. Jackson told me he’d never risk getting into a relationship again. I don’t need to get my heart broken by fantasizing about things that will never happen.
I’m an employee, nothing more.
Fiona sits at the kitchen table, which we’ve turned into an art lab. Yellow cylinders of Playdough sit next to brightly colored modeling clay, markers, paper, feathers, Styrofoam balls of different sizes, and pipe cleaners.
I spent some time at an art supply store after work yesterday in anticipation of our big night together while Jackson goes to a corporate dinner he seems to be dreading. Fiona treated me to her jack-o-lantern grin when I spread everything out on the table, but the glee turned to a pout when I told her we needed to take a break for dinner. “Lentils tonight.”
“Ugh, not lentils.”
Fiona has surprised me by being game for almost every vegetable I throw her way, but she’s having some trouble with any type of bean.
Tonight, I’m betting I can get her to eat the lentils, especially if an extra few stories or a TV show is on the table as a reward. “Remember, your dad said it’s okay if you do what I’m asking.”
I wink at Jackson. Two against one. Fiona doesn’t stand a chance, even if she doesn’t realize it. He chimes in, “Try them, Fi.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I think you’ll like the lentils this time. I made them into a sort of salad. We’re going to eat it on crackers. No forks tonight,” I say.
That piques her interest, and she creeps over to the bowl where I’ve combined feta cheese, a bruschetta-like mix of tomatoes and garlic, and some greens thrown in for color and texture. Mixed together, the lentils are partially disguised by the tomatoes and everything else. “Hmm. Okay, I’ll try.”
Jackson stands off to the side, leaning against the counter with his feet crossed at the ankles. He often does this when I cook for Fiona—observes from a corner of the kitchen. Most days, he insists I stay for dinner with the two of them, or he creeps upstairs to his home office to get a bit more work done, claiming to have forgotten the last few items on his to-do list.
I know he’s aware that money is tight for me, and I have a feeling he goes out of his way to let me clock a few extra hours here and there since it makes no difference to his wallet. He never brings up the difference between our financial situations, and neither do I, but I know he’s aware of it. I am too. All the time.
“Okay, you two. Don’t burn the place down. I’ve gotta go get ready.”
Jackson’s eyes drift from my face down to my bare legs under the shorts I’m still wearing from when Fiona and I went to the lake earlier. He seems to do that a lot, and I wonder if he’s aware he’s doing it. When his eyes trail down my legs, I swear I can feel it like a melting stick of butter.
Without another word, he leaves us to make messes with art and eat dinner while he showers and gets dressed for the “business thing” he’s been complaining about all week long. He makes it sound like an annual torture ritual.
The evening breeze filters through the open windows of the kitchen, carrying with it all the summer smells I love—lavender, star jasmine—mingling with the pervasive earthy smell of the vines.
“Can we work on our art a little longer before we eat?” Fiona asks.
“Sure. Should I keep working on the Playdough?” I ask, pointing to my artless attempt to make a family of gnomes. They look more like Smurfs. Or blobs.
I expect Fiona to dismantle them and put their pieces back into the appropriately-colored containers like we usually do, but she gleefully tells me she’s keeping them. “They’re a family. They’ll live in my room.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, rolling a small piece into a ball to make one more.
Her chatter fills the room for the next half hour, and I almost forget I’m supposed to be feeding her dinner. Being with her never feels like a job.
Fiona concentrates hard on cutting out red paper hearts she plans to paste into a book she’s decided to write. “It’s going to be a pop-up book,” she announces, dabbing the corner of a heart with a fat glue stick. She bends the heart so it lays flat against the page and unfolds it to show how it “pops up.”
“I love it. What’s your story going to be about?”
She looks at the ceiling and purses her mouth before nodding her head decisively. “A princess. And a handsome prince. Like you and Daddy.”
My heart lurches in my chest, and I get ready to dispel that thought from her head. I have to because it’s the kind of story that won’t have the happy ending she imagines.
Before I can form the words, her head twists to the side and she beams at her dad, who rests one hand on the counter. I wonder how long he’s been standing there. Did he hear what she said?
“Daddy, you smell weird.” Fiona waves a hand in front of her nose.
