Conrad was doing better. He hadn’t magically transformed into a man who never glanced at his phone or mentally wandered into spreadsheets while his children explained the emotional politics of frogs. Nevertheless, he was better.
He came home when he said he would more often now. Dinner had become an actual meal with meaningful conversation instead of a background event he attended physically while clearly somewhere else mentally. He listened more intently. Laughed easier. Sat on the floor with Billie even when he was tired. Asked Bianca questions about her books and waited for the answers. Read pieces of CJ’s stories with genuine attention instead of distracted praise while his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The whole house felt different because of it.
Which was why it was particularly unfortunate that a genuine business emergency arrived the same week as the school PTA bake sale.
I found him in the kitchen on Thursday evening with his tie loosened and one hand pressed against his forehead, staring at his laptop screen.
“That expression usually means numbers are threatening you,” I observed.
“They are.” He exhaled heavily and looked up. “There’s a board issue in Chicago. Something about revised projections and a possible acquisition problem.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It’s going to become more expensive if I don’t deal with it,” he said.
CJ looked up from the kitchen table where he’d been writing. “Corporate despair has entered the chat.”
“That phrase already sounds dated,” Bianca said as she worked on a homework assignment.
Billie sat cross-legged on the floor, building what appeared to be a castle entirely populated by plastic lizards.
Conrad rubbed both hands over his face. “I need to miss the bake sale tomorrow.”
Billie gasped. “The sugar festival?”
“The PTA fundraiser,” Bianca corrected.
“The sugar festival,” Billie repeated firmly.
Conrad looked genuinely upset about it, which I took note of. Old Conrad would have sounded frustrated by the scheduling inconvenience. Current Conrad sounded genuinely disappointed.
“I know I said I’d go,” he told the kids. “I’m sorry.”
CJ shrugged first, easy and forgiving in the way children often were when they sensed real regret. “You can’t really tell rich adults no during apocalypse finance season.”
Billie looked devastated for approximately four seconds before becoming distracted by one of the lizards falling off the castle. I began gathering plates from dinner, expecting the conversation to end there.
“Winnie,” Conrad said.
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to say yes more than anything. But I’d been going above and beyond for this family in numerous ways, and I was only getting more attached by the minute. PTAs were forparents. I couldn’t let myself continue blurring the lines.
“No,” I finally said.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
I frowned. “I can guess.”
His mouth twitched despite his stress. “Please?”
“I dislike it when that word is directed at me.”
“You’re a fantastic baker.”
I smirked. “That’s true.”
“The bake sale is a fundraiser. Can’t you do it for the children?” He batted his eyes at me and clasped his hands together under his chin.
