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Pain clutches my chest something fierce then.
Even though I know it shouldn’t.
“Well, he’s not home,” I tell her. “And he won’t be for a few hours, but —”
She slides the sunglasses that were perched up on her head down. “It’s okay. I’ll wait.”
“Um,” I rub Sophie’s back who’s still burrowed in my chest, “I don’t know if Ri — I mean, Mr. Rivera would like that. I could take a message and —”
She pushes her way in. “It’s okay. I prefer to give that message myself.” And as she walks down the hallway, probably to get to the living room, she calls out, “I know you’re not the maid but I’d love a coffee. The weather’s a bitch today.”
I hug Sophie tightly and whisper, “It’s okay, honey. We’ll text your daddy now. And you didn’t hear that B word, okay? It’s not a good word and it’s not for you.”
I just hope he replies back.
He never did last night, when I had to leave early because of my brother, but I hope he tells me what he wants me to do with… her. As it is, I want to walk out of the door and never come back. Because I thought I could keep my feelings out of it, like I’ve been doing until now, but I can’t.
I can’t watch him go on dates or potentially find love.
Not after that night.
Not after knowing what it feels like to be with him.
What it feels like to be perfect.
For him.
And for myself.
I also want to throw the coffee that I make for her in her face. But I’m not going to do that. I’m on my way back from the living room after dropping off her coffee and planning to hide out in Sophie’s room until Tara leaves when the front door bursts open.
I jump slightly at the violence of it and then freeze at the landing when I see it’s him.
Not only because he’s the one who’s almost slammed the door to get inside his own house but also because it takes him over an hour, sometimes close to two, to get back home from practice. But he’s here only fifteen minutes after I texted. And at the sight of me standing across from the door, at the end of the hallway, his eyes burn.
They burn.
There’s no other way to describe it.
They burn. They smolder. They blaze.
And I get that feeling again.
Of being sucker-punched.
And I realize that it was actually better when he wouldn’t look at me. Because this is worse, him staring at me like he did that night. Like he can’t get enough of me. Like he never ever wants to stop staring at me.
I drop my gaze then, because it’s too much, and realize Sophie’s squirming in my arms, wanting to be put down. So I let her go and she races straight to her daddy. Who despite keeping his eyes on me all this time knows when to bend down and lift his baby girl into his arms.
And when he does, my heart both soars and squeezes.
Because he does what he always does when he sees Sophie after he comes home; he hugs her tightly as if they’ve been apart for days and not hours. He rubs his cheek on her dark curls that resemble his and then murmursI love youin her ear.
He does it in Spanish too.
Like English is too much for him to use right now when he’s stripped so raw and so vulnerable.
Down to his emotions.
