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This is all for his sake. I want him to have a stable, happy life here on the ranch, not some schedule where he’s only here on the occasional weekend while Elizabeth’s nanny takes him to the park.

I don’t answer immediately. Can’t bring myself to answer.

Scout’s room is a pale blue that I painted with Elizabeth when she was just barely pregnant, and we found out we were having a boy. Things were so different then, a future I didn’t question with a woman I thought would love me forever. I didn’t even bother to stop and ask myself whether loving her was what I wanted.

“It means…she’s someone who wants me to be happy. A good friend.” As I say it, I’m aware that it feels true. Even with someone I didn’t know two weeks ago.

“Oh! I have a lot of those.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say, fighting back an unexpected wave of emotion. I’m not sure if it’s because I want Callie to be more than a special friend or if I’m just grateful for what she’s done so far.

A small musical light spins slowly, casting stars and planets in hues of pink and purple on the walls, while it plays a slow, quiet verse of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I like these nightly rituals with Scout. They’re the best part of my day.

And I don’t mind being a single dad. Scout and I make a good team.

I open a book about a grouchy garbage truck that Scout loves and start reading. It’s full of pictures, and normally Scout sits up to look at each page and point out things before I move on to the next one. Things like, “I wish all garbage trucks were purple.”

But not tonight. As predicted, the kid is wiped out from school and an afternoon of wreaking havoc on our house. I half expect to find horses in the living room when I go downstairs and pigs in the chicken coop outside. As Scout’s breathing evens out and he sinks into a deep sleep, I watch him, feeling lucky that I have this time with him, praying it’s not fleeting if Elizabeth’s lawyers catch me in the gigantic lie I’ve concocted.

I almost fall asleep myself, sitting up on the corner of the bed. But eventually, I stand and drag myself from the room, anticipating at least an hour of cleaning ahead. When I reach the kitchen, I flip on the light, ready for the sink full of dishes and a mess on the counters.

The room is spotless. Every dish and glass is in the dishwasher, which is humming along on the rinse cycle.

The counters are clean—more spotless than I usually get them—and the pots and pans she used for cooking are scrubbed and sitting on the drying rack. Opening the lower cabinet, I see that all the pots and pans that were outside earlier have been stacked according to size. Better than the jumble of lids and pots I normally shove inside before closing the door with my boot.

Inside the fridge, the leftover chicken, noodles, and vegetables are separated into storage containers and labeled with Post-its with today’s date.

The only items left out are a dinner plate with a chicken breast, a small dish of barbecue sauce, some broccoli, and the pasta sprinkled with parmesan cheese. There’s another Post-it Note. “Figured you probably didn’t have time to eat.” And a heart.

A pang of something hits me squarely in the chest. I feel guilty and touched.

When I came home, all I saw was the mess. I’d been so riddled with fear that she’d somehow led Scout astray that I didn’t bother to thank her for taking care of him for the past several hours, at a moment’s notice. For giving my son the kind of afternoon he deserves. For being a good friend.

I feel like an asshole.

“Callie…” I keep my voice low so I don’t wake Scout. When she doesn’t respond, I pull open the front door and see the car still in the driveway. I figure she’s outside, probably still cleaning up paint, so I go out the family room door to the patio, planning to tell her to leave it for me to deal with in the morning.

But she’s not there either. Nor is the mess.

All the paint has been washed from the deck, and Scout’s artwork hangs along the fence that extends out toward the barn. Each painting is tacked to the wood with a tiny thumbtack she must have freed from the bulletin board hanging in Scout’s room. True to Scout’s description, it looks like an art gallery, each picture exuberantly finger painted in bright colors, each of which I just washed from Scout’s hair.

The toys are back in their bins, and all of the patio furniture is straightened up and in place, almost as though no one was here at all.

“Callie?” I call out a bit louder in case she’s wandering in the pasture or out in the barn. It’s not dangerous out here at night, but it’s not well-lit, and she could easily get hurt if she’s not careful. Still, no response.

Back inside the house, I walk from room to room, glancing around the family room again as I pass through it. This time I notice that Scout’s puzzles are organized on the lower shelf of the coffee table, and his Lego car is finished, sitting proudly on display on top. The two of them were busy. I check the time again and see it’s after eight, feeling guilty for leaving Callie in charge of Scout for so long and wondering if I should offer to pay her for babysitting.

Near the front door, in the living room which no one uses, I find her curled up on the couch. Her shoes are off, lined up on the floor facing outward, as though she might need to slip into them and make a quick getaway. Walking closer, I expect her to hear me approach and bolt upright, as though caught napping on the job, but she doesn’t budge.

I stand over her, noticing the calm rise and fall of her chest beneath her pink V-neck tee. She’s lying on her side, so I can’t help catching a glimpse of cleavage, her tanned skin and rounded breasts, which I should not be noticing. Her eyelashes fan across the tops of her pink cheeks and her lips, barely parted, have a rosebud shape I can’t stop staring at.

She’s beautiful. I allow myself an extra few seconds to gaze at her while she’s so serene.

“Callie.” I nudge her shoulder, not wanting to startle her as she wakes up in an unfamiliar place. But she doesn’t budge. I give her another little shake, hard enough that she wriggles a little bit and settles back against the sofa cushion with a little sigh.

I can’t remember the last time I slept that soundly. Maybe never.

Blowing out a breath at one of the longest days in a series of long days, I give up. There’s a chenille blanket at the foot of the couch no one ever sits on, so I make use of it now, draping it across her body and making sure her feet are covered.