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“Good morning,” I offer, trying my best to look like the sight of him doesn’t make my heart race.
Sophie turns to notice me. “Cassie! Tell my dad that chocolate chips are better than blueberries.”
“Well, that depends,” I tell her, stepping closer to the kitchen. “In what context?”
“For pancakes!” She shoots her dad a disgruntled look. “Dad says blueberries are better because they’rehealthier.”
“Well, he has a point,” I say, taking the open barstool on the opposite side of her. I hear Aiden make a triumphant sound before I lean in closer to Sophie to lower my voice. “But chocolate chips arewaybetter.”
Sophie beams, shooting her dad a smug grin. “See? Told you.”
“Fine, fine,” Aiden laughs. “I guess I’m outnumbered.”
He catches my eye then, looking at me in a way that feels like a question, and that same fluttering sort of panic sparks in my chest, my heart pounding a bit harder as a flood of memory washesover me. I bury it deep as I give him a smile that hopefully says anything but “you used to watch me touch myself.” All I can hope for now is that he doesn’t ask about my strange behavior last night, because I am not confident that I will have any explanation to give him that will make any sense. I know that telling him the truth is not an option, because the most likely outcome of that will be him kicking me out of his house and out of his life, for thesecondtime, I might add, and there is more at stake now. Not just the money, which I desperately need, but also the connection I’ve formed with Sophie. I can’t abandon her now, not when I’ve just gotten her to trust me. She doesn’t deserve any more disappointment.
And if there is a small part of me not ready to see Aiden disappear from my life again... Well, I tell myself that it is normal, and not completely pathetic, to feel that way.
“So... will you make pancakes?”
Sophie’s expectant question draws me out of my fervent thoughts, tearing my gaze from Aiden’s and meeting Sophie’s instead as I pretend to consider. “Hmm. I don’t know. Your dad told me he was staying for breakfast today, and since he seems to be anti–chocolate chips, it might be a problem.”
“What?” Sophie turns toward Aiden excitedly. “You’re staying for breakfast?”
His eyes crinkle with a smile. “Yep.” He reaches to tap her nose. “Gonna try to make sure I’m here for breakfast more often.”
Sophie’s entire face lights up, but I find myself watching Aiden. I can see it, the way he notices that such a simple thing makes all the difference in his little girl, can see the way it pleases him, and it sets off an entirely new sensation in my chest—one that is warm and fuzzy and strange. It makes me happy, I realize, to see the two of them happy, and I also realize it has nothing to do with thestrange history between Aiden and me, and everything to do with this tiny little family that is slowly worming its way into my heart.
It’s something that could be dangerous, and that, unfortunately,doeshave everything to do with Aiden and our strange history.
I watch them continue to chat happily as I slide off the barstool to start busying myself with pancakes, a strange influx of emotions keeping me quiet with my own thoughts as I consider all that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. I am well aware that there is some part of me that will always wonder what happened withA, or rather, Aiden, I guess, but I know that my best course of action is to bury every emotion I have that is connected to anything we shared a year ago, bury it deep so that it can’t ruin what I’ve found with this little family that I so desperately want to find happiness. Because the one thing I’m sure of, more than anything else... is that Aiden can never know what I know.
No matter how badly I want to ask.
—
It’s still bothering me later when I’m stepping into the campus building of St. Augustine’s, trudging to the lab room to find my seat before class starts. I’d been excited about today, since we’re working with the Anatomage table—but now I’m preoccupied with thoughts of the past and the present all colliding to make for one very confusing living arrangement. I miss the instructor’s introduction entirely, huddling over my desk as I chew the end of my thumbnail.
It isn’t until we break for group study that my lab partner, Camila, finally comments on my strange behavior. “What’s up with you? You were barely paying attention when she was explaining how to use the table settings.”
“I know,” I sigh, flipping through the instruction guide. “Just some weirdness at home.”
“Oh. Are you still nannying?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is it the kid? You said she was nine, right? I have a niece that age. They can be mean as hell.”
“No, no, she’s great,” I assure her. “Just some weird adjustments on my part.”
“Uh-huh.”
Camila looks at me with a cocked eyebrow before leaning over the large, lit-up table to take the veins away from the digital cadaver so that she can get a closer look at the bones of the wrist. “You said it was just the kid and her dad, right? That’s got to be weird. Living with a strange guy.”
“He’s not strange,” I insist. “They’re both really great.”
It’s just that the dad has told me exactly how to make myself come on numerous occasions.
But I can’t say that.
