“She’s a deep sleeper,” Daisy whispered back. “Just like you.”
That earned her the grin she’d missed; any hint of Amelia in himself drew it out of him. He lifted their daughter carefully, tucked her in, and they both kissed her cheek before slipping back to the living room.
Instead of lingering around, thinking of what they could do now that they were alone, Daisy headed straight for the fridge and grabbed a bottle of white wine.
She lifted the bottle up, silently asking him if he’d care for a glass but then suddenly realized her error.
“Oh, crap… you’re sober.”
He laughed. “It was drugs that wrecked me, not booze. And definitely not”—he checked the label—“Chardonnay.”
“Still—”
He interjected. “I like wine, drink it from time to time even, so don’t worry. You’re not enabling me in any way. I’m fine, Daisy. Have a glass.”
She poured one and sank into the couch beside him. Quiet settled.
“What happened tonight?” he asked, voice gentle.
“With Matt?”
He nodded.
“We’re… taking space. Figuring out what we really want.” Her mouth tugged. “Which I guess is different things right now.”
“So you’re not together?” The careful neutrality in his tone still sounded like hope.
“Not officially. Though it’s not that different from what we usually do.”
He winced. “No judgment, but it’s a peculiar arrangement.”
“Sounds like judgment.”
“Okay, a little.” He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t understand letting him run free in New York, then playing house when he’s here.”
“It worked for a while. When I moved back to San Francisco, he traveled a lot. I assumed, wrongly might I add, that he was messing around. We’d fight, break up, get back together. It was bad for Amelia. So I suggested an alternative.” She gave him a look. “A hall pass of sorts.”
He snorted softly.
“It took the pressure off. And honestly, he never used it. But now he wants a real family. And I…” She traced the rim of her glass. “I’m scared because of—”
“—what happened between us,” he finished quietly.
She nodded. “I probably should’ve gone to therapy a long time ago.”
“Worked for me,” he said, a wry half smile that actually reached his eyes.
Daisy smiled back because, on him, it looked true. “I don’t want to talk about Matt anymore, if that’s okay. I’ve got a lot to figure out.”
“Okay,” he said gently. “Can we talk about Amelia instead?” He hesitated, almost shy. “Do you… have any pictures? From when she was little. Maybe some I could keep?”
She smiled and fetched an album she hadn’t updated since Christmas. He opened to the first page and went still.
It was Daisy—nineteen years old, hair long, and belly round.
“You were so beautiful,” he murmured, thumb brushing the glossy edge.
“I was enormous and uncomfortable. But… thanks.”
