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Cass’s sobs seep through the walls, sending my anxiety spiraling. With a heavy sigh, I lever myself off the floor and head toward her room. I don’t know what I can say to her. I’d give a lot to go to my room and cry myself to sleep, too.
A knock at the door halts my steps. Is it Chip? Did he follow me home? I fumble for my purse. I can write him a check right now. I can solve this problem. Cass will stop crying. I’ll stop being afraid. I hurry to the door and wrench it open. “Chip, I—”
“Hi, Lainey.” Charlie’s bright face appears on the other side.
“Oh.” Relief and disappointment wash over me in a rush, leaving me weak. I lean against the door for support. “Hey, Charlotte.”
“You were expecting Chip Peters?” She’s both surprised and suspicious.
I’m not sure if it’s my fear or my loneliness that pushes the unwise words out, but when I open my mouth to deny it, a confession tumbles forth. “He’s Cass’s father but he hates us. He paid me money to leave Dallas before and told me not to come back, but here I am.”
Charlie’s jaw drops.
Immediately, the consequences of my words seize me. Flustered, I try to shut the door. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and staying dumb things. Forget I said anything. I’ve got it all under control.”
“I can hear Cass crying from the stairs,” my friend points out.
“She’s five. She’s mad if she doesn’t get to wear her sandals to school instead of tennis shoes,” I snap.
“Who wouldn’t be mad about that? I like sandals myself.” Charlie pushes her way inside. “Hey, Cassidy. Charlie’s here.”
My daughter motors out of her room and throws her tearful self into Charlie’s arms. “Charlie! Charlie! We’re ’bandoning you! My fish are going to die! Don’t let my fishies die!”
“We’re not abandoning anyone. We’re just…” I flounder for the right words, but I don’t know what those are. I feel like I’m breaking every promise I ever made to my girl and that makes me feel about two inches high.
Charlie rubs my daughter’s shoulders. “The fish are going to be alright. Nick’s a big boy. He can take care of them.”
“But they’re my fishies!” Cass stomps her foot. “I’m supposed to feed them.”
Charlie throws me an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. I’ll get Nick to fix this.”
“No. Cass is my girl.” I pull up my metaphorical panties and go to my daughter. It takes some effort to peel her away from Charlotte’s arms. “Honey, listen. You know how Mama goes to work at the restaurant and you go to work at school? And how at school, you have chores that you have to do because you’re an important part of your classroom?”
She cries but nods anyway.
“Nick has his own responsibilities, and feeding those fish is one of those. That’s part of his job, and just like you can’t ask anyone else to clean the erasers, he can’t really have you feed the fish.” I wipe her tears. Her sobs have quieted down to sniffles.
“B-b-but he wants my help.”
I throw her a bone. “You can help by reminding him to feed the fish.”
“Really?” She perks up immediately at this.
I shouldn’t allow this. I need to cut off all contact with Nick or else the yearning I have for him will grow so big I won’t be able to keep it in a box anymore. It’s such a bad idea, but when I see the smile that spreads across my daughter’s face as she absorbs this idea, I find myself nodding. “Yes. You can use my phone and text him once a day when the fish need to be fed.”
She jumps out of my arms and claps her hands together. “Yay! Yay! Yay!”
“Text me too,” Charlie demands.
“I will! I’ll text you, too, Charlie!” My daughter throws her tiny arms around Charlie’s neck. The two cling to each other until I pry them apart.
“Cass, Mama and Charlie need to talk for a minute. Why don’t you go watch Backyardigans?”
“Okay!” The girl happily skips away, forgetting all about the trauma of the fish and being yelled at by Chip.
Once I hear the television turn on, I turn to Charlie. “Please forget anything I said at the door.”
“I can’t.” Charlotte comes over to sit next to me on the floor. “I can’t because I need you here. Nick needs you. I don’t know what Chip said and you don’t need to tell me, but I can help you. We—Nick and I—can help you. I wasn’t lying when I said I came from money.”
I stare down at my lap where her hands cover mine. On three of her fingers, Charlie’s wearing delicate diamond-encrusted rings. Her nails are perfectly shaped and polished. Her hands are soft, without callouses. Two weeks ago, she took me to get my first manicure. I don’t doubt that she has money, but Chip played professional football for eight years. He wrote out a check for a hundred grand like he was paying a utility bill. Besides, I don’t want to tell Charlie my past. It’s too dark and too shameful.
