I blink. “Oh. Okay.”
His fingers go to his tie again, loosening it another inch, pulling in a way that makes my pulse spike. “I need to shower first. You two okay for twenty?”
“Yep,” I say. At least I can still produce one-syllable answers under duress.
Penelope nods vigorously. “We were coloring.”
“Perfect.” He glances at me once more, expression unreadable. “Pizza’s easier.”
* * *
Grayson reappears as Penny and I are sitting on the floor around the coffee table, crayons in hand, and the man is clearly trying to test my restraint.
He’s in grey joggers, a white T-shirt, forearms bare like that’s just a casual thing for him. His salt-and-pepper hair is still damp from the shower, just messy enough to look touchable, and whatever body wash or shampoo or cologne he uses reaches me from six feet away, invading my nostrils, taunting me.
I struggle to focus on the hippo I was trying to sketch, and thankfully, Penelope has no ability to pick up on that and, instead, cuts the tension like a knife.
“Daddy, look!” she says, shoving one of our drawings into his hands.
He drops down onto the rug beside her with a grunt, one knee bent, expression soft and open in a way I almost never see at work. Even the creases by his eyes are smoother.
Total dad mode.
He lets her explain every single crayon choice. He pretends to be devastated when she shows him a particularly unflattering sketch she did of him, playing into her giggles over how purposely bad it is. He laughs when she climbs all over him like he’s jungle gym equipment, lying back on the floor as she straddles his chest, pretending she wrestled him down. At one point she steals his phone and takes three blurry photos of her own forehead, and he reacts like she’s just created fine art.
Most of his attention stays on Penelope while I try to actually relax for a bit and sketch out designs in crayon.But now and then, his gaze catches mine across the room, and every time it does, it feels loaded in a completely different way than the things he actually says.
When pizza arrives, we eat in the kitchen because Penelope is definitely not clean enough to risk getting grease on the couch. Her and Grayson sit next to each other on the island while I stand to eat opposite them, leaning over the counter. She tells us about school again between bites of cheese pizza and attempts to negotiate for extra ranch. Grayson holds the line with the calm patience of a man who has clearly argued with this tiny person before.
“Nope. One pot’s worth,” he says.
“But, but, but what if I get to a part of the pizza that doesn’t have sauce and Ineedmore?”
I choke on a laugh.
His mouth twitches. “Then you can have some of mine.”
“Yours is gross!”
“Mine ishealthier.”
She sighs like this is the greatest injustice a child has ever suffered.
It is, against all odds, a good night.
It’s simple, easy, warm in the places that matter— and maybe that’s why it hurts a little. I can see how this could become normal.I can see how dangerous that would be.
By the time Penelope is bathed, in her pajamas, and tucked into bed, I am exhausted and a little strung out thinking about the office tomorrow and then watching her all over again.
Grayson handles most of her bedtime routine, but I get her a glass of water when she begs and hovers in the doorway, watching Penelope cuddle into her blankets while he reads with her tucked against his side.
When he says goodnight, she makes him kiss her forehead twice because once was insufficient for her, and it makes my chest ache how easily he folds for her.
“Night, Daddy. Night, Carly,” she says sleepily.
“Night, Penny.” I wave, taking a step back from the door.
“Night, princess,” Grayson murmurs, giving her one extra kiss for free before slipping away.He pulls her door mostly closed behind us, the hallway suddenly too quiet, and for a second, neither of us moves— just him standing there, watching me standing there.
