She exhales as I hold my breath. "Yeah, yeah," she groans. "Love you too."
13
Tessa
"So, uh, what's this weekend?" I ask, grateful my voice comes out steadier than I expected it to.
Ruthie reaches across the island and drags her drawing from earlier and the neon yellow pencil case that's sitting on top of it in front of her. "The Gators are playing in Grand Oaks this weekend. It's not far, but they sleep over obviously, and that hotel has the best monkey bread pancakes."
Saliva collects underneath my tongue at just the thought of such a thing. "Wow, I'm in," I deadpan.
Ruthie smiles, unzipping her pouch and pulling out a deep-purple colored pencil. "See… I don't know why Dad's being so weird about baseball this week."
My stomach drops because… I know why. He doesn't trust me enough to let me into such a big part of their lives. Here, at his house or with Ruthie at therapy or running errands, I'm just the babysitter. I'm her person, and he only has to deal with me when he's coming or going.
But that can't be what this position is—or maybe it can be, but that's not how I operate. If a clock-in, clock-out career was what I was looking for, I would have studied business like Margot or physical therapy like Grant's doing right now. But I asked for this.
I want the full investment in their lives and the strange hours working around Liam's schedule. I want to workwiththeir family, notfortheir family. The soccer practices, the appointments—the games where Ruthie can support her dad—I want it all. Nellie would probably unpack why it's so opposite of how I feel about every other aspect of my life, but that's just how I've always been.
"What are you drawing?" I ask, switching the subject.
Ruthie tilts her head, looking at the outline of the person she's now filling in. "My mom."
My whole body freezes, my face the only part not showing the flood of panic that just rushed through it. "Oh," is all I can manage to force out.
She keeps coloring as casually as if she said a princess or a friend or anything other than the woman I thought barely existed. "Nellie told me I should try drawing what I think she would look like now." She switches the pencil from purple to a bright sky blue. "You know, if I knew her."
A lump forms in my throat that I'm not surehowor evenifI should swallow. Something about this feels sacred—and quite frankly, none of my business. But then I remember the points I just made in my mind.
I don't want surface level, I want connection. And although I would never push Ruthie into a conversation she's not ready or willing to have, if she's offering, it's my job to hear her out and handle that with care. I decide ignoring this or blowing it off could cause more damage than good, and if Liam disagrees, maybe it's best we find out now.
"Can I see?" I ask.
She spins the paper nonchalantly and rests her elbow on the counter, her chin in her palm.
"She's beautiful."
Ruthie shrugs. "Maybe. Dad said the Montgomery gene is strong, but I think I might have her nose."
I study the sketch another second before handing it back to her, my nerves still uneasy. "Have you ever met her?"
She shakes her head.
"Seen a picture?"
Her face scrunches up slightly. "Dad doesn't have any. He says they didn't really know each other."
The statement surprises me. Not because I find it hard to believe that a grown man ever slept around, but because I can't imagine that the Liam that I know has ever had a one-night-stand or casual relationship. "Does that bother you?" I ask.
Ruthie flips her pencil and taps it against the marble. "Sometimes. Like when the girls at soccer talk about going shopping or getting their nails done with their moms." She stares at the drawing, then shrugs. "But I'm used to it."
I don't respond, not because I don't know what to say, but because I'm not sure she needs me to say anything at all. I'm sure she's heard everything fromI'm sorry, tothat stinks, toat least you have a great dad to make up for it. And I could guess that none of the generic responses that people think are helpful make her feel any better.
I don't know what Ruthie's going through, only having her dad. Both of my parents were and still are a huge part of my life, and my siblings have nearly suffocated me for as long as I can remember. But I can imagine that trying to justify it or explain it away doesn't fill any hole or make up for lost time or provide her common ground with the girls on her team. Maybe she just needs someone to listen. To be here.
"Oh!" Ruthie's head pops up as she turns her colored pencil back around to shade the sky in her drawing. "I talked to Dad about bras."
I nearly snort out a laugh at the way this all flips, but somehow I hide it. "How'd that go?" I ask, packing the leftover chicken and sweet potatoes we had for dinner into a glass container.
