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“I love you, Mommy,” she murmurs sleepily.
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “I love you too, Ella.”
“You won’t leave till I’m ’sleep, right?”
“Of course not,” I assure her like I’ve done nearly every night since she’s been able to talk. “I’ll be right here until those pretty brown eyes are asleep, and Skye tells me it’s okay to go.”
As always, my response makes a smile touch her lips as she rolls onto her side with her stuffed dog pulled to her chest. I reach over and turn off the bedside lamp with a pink princess shade, then gently rub Ella’s back as her facial features, barely visible in the dim light of her nightlight, start to relax into sleep. I say several silent prayers over her, and once I’m sure she’s out for the night, slowly ease off her bed. I pause as if asking Skye (her stuffed animal) if it’s okay to go—just in case Ella ever does see me—and then cross quietly to the door, leaving it sixty percent open like Ella prefers it.
Though I’m tempted to go down the hall, get ready for bed, and crawl under the covers that always welcome me no matter the day I’ve had, I can’t. I promised Ella muffins, which means I go downstairs and find the boxed mix of blueberry ones I happened to grab on my last grocery run. I also should probably respond to Pete’s text, but that sounds about as inviting as laying down on a bed of cactuses, so I ignore the thought.
Until the muffins are in the oven, and I find myself sitting on a barstool at my island staring at the text he sent, of course. Thenerveof the man! Two months ago, he didn’t want anything to do with the kids and now he suddenly wants to see them? I try not to jump to conclusions, but something about that picture isn’t right. I don’t like the unease I’ve felt all day as I’ve tried to come up with an answer.
Joanna told me to send him an emoji that’s two fingers over from a thumbs up. Alice said to respond withWhen hell freezes over!and a winky face. I considered doing a combination of the two. Forget the winky face, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not really that type of person, but when my kids are involved, I’ll do everything in my power to keep them safe, both physically and emotionally.
I still don’t have a response for Pete, and for a moment I consider calling Alice and asking her to come over. It’s only nine, so it’s not late, but I know Alice likes to read before bed and doesn’t like interruptions. I already talked to her earlier today on my lunch break while the kids played in the backyard. Nothing’s changed in that time. Except, of course, that I’ve had more time to consider my response.
I’m about to get up and check on the muffins—even though there’s still eight minutes left on the timer; I need something to do with my hands, okay? —when my phone vibrates in my hand. My heart pounds as I tap into it, momentarily thinking it saidPeteas the sender, likely because that’s what I’ve thought of all day. Then relief, mixed with a raised heartrate for a whole different reason, starts stabilizing my pulse.
Seth: How are you doing?
I don’t even hesitate.Honestly, I’m not sure.Then, without even giving it any thought, I addDo you have time to talk?
Seth: As a cop or…?
No.I take a deep breath, complete by closing my eyes and exhaling through my mouth.As a friend.
His response comes not six seconds later.I’m on my way.
By the time Seth texts me to let me know he’s here—I asked him not to knock because the kids are asleep—I’ve pulled the muffins from the oven and paced around my island six times. The dishes are still sticking their tongues out at me from in the sink, but I don’t have the energy to do them. They won’t disappear overnight, and if they do, cool! Problem solved.
I quietly open the door and welcome Seth inside. He just stands in my entryway for a moment, assessing. And to be completely honest, all I really want to do is wrap my arms around him and burrow my cheek into the fabric of his gray hoodie. This isn’t Seth Johnson the cop at my house. This is Seth Johnson the friend.
“Has he texted you again?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. And I haven’t responded. Here, we can go into the kitchen. Sorry, it’s kind of messy. I promised Ella we’d have blueberry muffins for breakfast literally as I was putting her to bed, so I had to make them and I don’t really feel like doing the dishes, so they’re just sitting there—Whatareyoudoing?” My words all smoosh together like a pileup on the interstate.
“The dishes,” he says simply. “I’m listening, though, if you want to sit and tell me whatever it is you want to talk about.”
I can’t sit down. My arms hang limp by my sides and my mouth is an O as I watch Seth roll up the sleeves of his hoodie, exposing his tanned, muscled forearms. My dumbfounded eyes follow his every move like a lion stalking its prey in the wild. He leans down and gets the soap from under my sink, squirts it on the washcloth I have sitting there (it was an attempt to motivate myself that didn’t work), and runs it under the faucet.
Seth Johnson is doing my dishes.
He’s standingin my kitchenin jeans and a hoodie at quarter after nine on a random Tuesday night in June, DOING MY DISHES. And because I can’t not say it, he looks really freaking hot doing it. Remember how I found Seth opening an envelope attractive? Yeah, no, we moved right on past that. I mean, this is like a hundred times sexier than the envelope. I can’t look away. I can’t. It’s like I’ve been put in a trance. And good Lord, do not get me started on howrightthis feels.
Seth.
Doing my dishes.
I think flowers as a romantic gesture are now ruined for me because of this.
And then, all of a sudden, I feel a hot pressure at the backs of my eyes.Oh no.I don’t want the waterworks right now. Why didn’t I just go to bed? Why did I come downstairs and text Seth and ask him to talk? I mean, he texted me first, but I RESPONDED. If I would’ve just gone to bed, I wouldn’t have gotten his message until morning.
I don’t claim to be the smartest person in the world.
I blink emphatically to try and hold my tears back, but it doesn’t work, because they only come on stronger.No, no, no.This wasn’t supposed to go this way. I’m supposed to be spitting mad at my ex and therefore not crying over something like Seth washing my dishes! But because I can’t make them stop, I’m about to mumble something about needing to go to the bathroom and escape down the hall when Seth turns the faucet off.
I’m suddenly frozen as he slowly dries his hands off on one of my dish towels—I might frame that one so I can remember this moment when I’m ninety years old—and drapes it over his shoulder.Whydoes he do that? There is a list somewhere on Pinterest about things guys do that are attractive. One of them is driving with one hand. Another has got to be standing in my kitchen with a dish towel draped over his muscular shoulder. I consider snapping a photo to send to Joanna (or to hang on my wall, I’m undecided) but I don’t have the chance to before he slowly comes around the island, his gaze never leaving mine. I think I might die because I don’t know if I’m breathing anymore, but that’s the least of my concerns when Seth stops directly in front of me.
