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16
CALEB
“Operation ‘Transfer Sleeping Child’ was a success,” I said, raising my arms victoriously as I strode into the kitchen.
I did feel victorious. I just managed to transplant my sleeping niece from the living room couch, where she had drifted off watching a movie about princesses and talking candlesticks, all the way down the hall and to her bed without waking her up. That was no small feat, especially considering the obstacle course of discarded toys scattered over her bedroom floor.
“Well done, Mr. Mom,” Daisy said, glancing up at me as she dropped a stack of dirty plates into the overflowing kitchen sink, topping off the tower of stainless steel pots and pans that were already stacked precariously in a bath of apple dish soap-scented bubbles.
“You’re really good with her, you know. You’re a natural.”
She smiled but she looked conflicted. Like she was still trying to figure me out. Like she was struggling to reconcile how the bad boy could turn into a hero. How the billionaire hotel heir could turn into a doting father figure for his niece. And as much as it pained me, I knew she has a right to wonder.
Daisy turned on the tap and reaches for the dishrag but I stopped her, wrapping my hands around her waist from behind and pressing my body against hers.
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered into her hair, taking in a deep breath of Daisy. She smelled like pastel petals and springtime and the kitchen smelled like homemade spaghetti sauce mixed with the burning lavender soy candle that Daisy lit next to the sink, and altogether it smelled like home.
If someone had told me a month ago that my pristine apartment would be littered with dolls and dirty dishes and Disney movies, I would have balked. Or that the highlight of my week would have been cooking homemade pasta with my niece and her preschool teacher. But now I couldn’t imagine it any other way, now that I had seen so much life fill the walls of my apartment, I couldn’t imagine going back to the cold, silent sterility.
“These dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”
“Fuck the dishes,” I said, turning off the tap and sliding my hand back around her waist.
She doesn’t melt into my arms. She doesn’t press her body closer to mine. She resisted, she kept her back firm and rigid.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, loosening my grip on her waist.
“Nothing,” she said dismissively, planting her hands on the edge of the countertop.
“Tell me,” I insisted.
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” she bluffed. “Work stuff. I really shouldn’t be here, and I don’t want the headmaster to find out.”
“Don’t lie to me, Daisy.”
She twisted around in my grasp, angling her body so that she was facing me with her chest pressed against mine and her hands were gripping onto my arms, pulling them tighter around her. She was grinding her jaw and I could tell she wanted to say something, but she was holding back.
I felt the hesitation lull in her throat, and could see the conflicted look flash across her eyes. I had a pretty good idea of exactly what was on her mind. She had been flirting with the edge all night; keeping her distance, then allowing herself to get a bit closer, only to pull away again.
“Why did you tell me that I should be afraid of you?” she asked me. Her voice was tiny, but her eyes are intense as they dig deep into mine, looking for an answer.
“I told you that’s a stupid question,” I said softly, reminding her of the answer I gave the last time she asked me.
“You want me to be brave and ask for what I want,” she said, wrinkling her brow into a frown. “Well, I want you to answer that question, whether you think it’s stupid or not. Why should I be afraid of you?”
Her eyes were digging holes into mine and our faces were so close that I could taste the wine on her breath. She was holding my arms around her, locking us together and holding her body close to mine, but somehow she was still resisting, still holding back.
“Why do you think, Daisy?” I asked, my voice a low whisper. I swallowed heavily, because I did not want to ruin this moment with the truth; I did not want to shatter what we have by talking about things we both already knew.
“I think that you’ve spent so much time reading the tabloid headlines that you’ve actually started to believe all of the awful things they write about you,” she said. “I think you’ve convinced yourself that you need to play a part, that you need to be this character that they’ve created.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Everyone,” she exhaled. “The press, the tabloids, the women who leach onto you for their fifteen minutes of fame.”
I felt my heart pounding in my chest, vibrating, creating white noise that wrapped around my head and rang through my ears. Why was she making me feel like this? Why were her words cutting through me? Why did I feel like she could see straight inside of me?
“I’m not playing a part, Daisy,” I said, my heart pounding through my voice. “This is just who I am.”
