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Ian: I do. Just been busy with work, and Sheila wanted some cabinets built into her new craft room. That’s been my evenings this whole week.
He attached a picture of some spectacular built-ins, the crop of the picture off center, so only half of Sheila’s smiling face showed. My smile hung around for a lot longer than it should have.
Me: You must have gained a lot of son brownie points with those.
Ian: Indeed. Eventually, I’ll edge out Cameron. He’s been banking them for years.
Me: Will you be around for dinner tonight? I can make something.
Ian: Don’t wait for me. I can heat something up later.
“Hmm.” I tapped a finger against my chin and tucked my phone away. That night, Sage and I ate some spaghetti and garlic bread, and I made sure to set the leftovers at the front of the fridge so that he wouldn’t miss them.
I did some out-of-genre reading—a vivid, lush fantasy about dragons and faes and civil war—while Sage did her homework. Thank goodness she was born with a brain that was naturally good at math because fifth grade was about where she was starting to lose my ability to help her.
While she changed into her pajamas, I wiped down the kitchen counters and dimmed the under-cabinet lights, watching the windows at the front of the house, just in case Ian decided to come home before I went upstairs.
But the driveway stayed dark, and when Sage was ready to be tucked in, I turned off all the lights except the ones in the kitchen and walked upstairs with a teeny tiny sigh.
I walked past my bedroom, the first and smaller of the two, and found Sage sitting on the side of her bed and straightening the books on her nightstand. The room could easily fit a queen-size bed, but that would be an upgrade that would have to wait, depending on how long we stayed there.
“Ready for bed, sleepyhead?”
With a nod, she slid under the covers of the pale blue comforter she’d picked at the store. “Ian’s like, never here,” she said.
I smoothed out some flyaway hairs on the top of her head and smiled. “He’s been busy. I wasn’t even sure you’d noticed.”
She gave me a look like I was crazy. “It’s his house. How could I not notice?”
“Fair enough.” I leaned down to kiss her forehead. She smelled like her shampoo, and I breathed it in when she gave me a tight squeeze. “You’re my favorite thing in the world, you know that?”
“You haven’t experienced everything in the world. How could you know I’m your favorite?”
I leaned back and tweaked her nose. “Trust me. I know.”
“I’m still going to Aunt Rachel’s after school tomorrow, right?”
I nodded. “I’ll pick you up before five.”
“You’ll get words tomorrow. I know it.” Then she yawned. “Good night, Mom. I love you.”
Slowly, I pulled the covers up near her chin and fought the desperate urge to climb in next to her like I used to when she was little, just to watch her fall asleep. “Love you too, kid.”
I sat there for a few more minutes until she cracked her eyes open. “Mom. You’re staring.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
I crept out of the room, and when I glanced back over my shoulder, her eyes were already closed again. The little blue star lamp on her nightstand cast a pretty, soft glow over the room, and I stood in the doorway while she turned onto her side and tucked her hands under her pillow.
I pulled her door shut quietly and then paused before going into my room, just in case I heard anything downstairs, but the house was still. You’d think that a quiet house would be a playground for a writer’s best thinking, but I was proof that wasn’t the case.
First, I’d lived in New York for too damn long. There was a soundtrack to that city that never really abated, even in the middle of the night. And I was still getting used to the absolute stillness of living in the country again.
I lay awake for a good long while and never heard Ian come in. So either he slept elsewhere—my brain refused to go there, thank you very much—or he had ninja skills in creeping in quietly. The following day, he was gone before I walked blearily into the kitchen to start Sage’s breakfast, but there was coffee in the pot and his favorite mug in the sink.
My thumb tapped against the edge of the counter while I stared at that mug. Without thinking about it too much, I picked it up. It was big, with an oversized handle to fit his oversized hands comfortably. The white ceramic coating was flecked with dark blue specks, and the Union Jack flag was wrapped around the entirety of the mug.
In my harder weeks in New York, I would sit on a bench in Central Park and imagine showing up in London to visit Ian. Imagined him showing up in New York. My body reacted to the memory, and a dull pinch in my chest had me thrown back to that phase of my life.
