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When Tabby sees me, she hurries forward, wrapping her arms around me. I tuck her against me. “Hey, Tabby Cat. How was your day at school?” I ask, glancing down at her. Her eyes stay on June, though, when she shrugs. Awkward tension descends on us, and I hate it. But I don’t know how to get rid of it either. I’ve never been good with that kind of stuff, and I’ve certainly never experienced it around my daughter.
I don’t like this, so I glare at June. In response, she smiles at us. “Tabby just agreed she would help me find a space for all my things.” She motions to her suitcase. “Could you show me my room so I can get settled?”
Right now, I don’t want to. Bringing in a stranger was a bad idea. I don’t care what the guidance counselor or the team psychologist I consulted said. Tabby is right—we’ve always managed on our own.
But even as my instincts are to pull my daughter behind me, to hide her from this situation and her own discomfort, I force myself to do things differently. I peel Tabby from my side, but I keep hold of her hand. With the other, I grip the suitcase handle. “Come on, Tab. Let’s show her the spare bedroom.”
“Dad…” Tabby’s voice is a whisper. She shakes her head. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to show June anywhere, that she doesn’t want her in our house, and she wants to go hide somewhere.
I grit my teeth. “Come on.” I squeeze her hand reassuringly, and we head upstairs together.
The house has seven bedrooms. When Sonya and I bought it nine years ago, right after I signed to the Tyrants, I hoped we would fill it with children. But then, two years later, she was gone, and it was only Tabby and me.
The room I planned for June is at the end of the hall, next to mine. It’s the largest spare room and has its own en suite. I figured she would be more comfortable with her own bathroom. I deposit her battered luggage in the center of the room. Behind me, I hear a sharp inhale.
“It’s lovely,” she whispers. The way she’s looking around the room is like I transported her to some other world. I follow her gaze. Objectively, the room is pretty. I hired someone to decorate after Sonya passed because Sonya didn’t get far with her renovation plans. As always, she had grand ideas but fumbled with the follow-through.
June spins around in the center, her arms outstretched. “This room is big enough for four girls. Maybe six.”
Uncomfortable, I wheel her suitcase into the center of the room. It’s awkward, though, thanks to a broken wheel. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.” I’ve been called aloof before, but I’m not sure I’ve ever sounded so stuffy. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sigh. “We’ll leave you to get settled, then.”
“Wait. Tabby agreed to help me.” June smiles at my daughter, who looks miserable in response. “I’ll never know where to put all my things in here.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out,” I add. Because it is very clear that my daughter wants nothing to do with June right now. If anything, she looks like she wants to escape. “Why don’t we leave you to it?”
June shoots me a scowl and shakes her head. “Please?” She kneels down in front of Tabby. “I could use the company.”
I know my daughter, and no matter how uncomfortable she might be, she won’t be able to resist that. She steps forward and nods before gazing up at me. “It’s okay, Daddy.”
Swallowing hard, I back out of the room. “Right. Then I’ll leave you two to it.” But I don’t close the door. I force myself to walk away, down the hall to my office. Once inside, I can’t sit down. Pacing, I shake out my hands.
I hate seeing Tabby uncomfortable, and all my instincts tell me to shield her, to make this go away. When I lost her mom, I decided I would always do whatever was best for Tabby. But what would make us feel better and what’s best for her are different things. Right now, she needs help, and by all measurable parameters, June’s the right person for the job.
June, whose cheeky comebacks amuse me and whose cheerful smile makes me want to step closer, to bask in her happiness.
While June might be exactly what Tabby needs, I need to steer clear of her as much as I can. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make sure she’s as prepared to care for Tabby as I can make her. It doesn’t mean I can’t make sure that Tabby has everything she needs.
I round my desk and pull out a pad of paper and a pen. Then I get to work.
June commandeers Tabby for almost an hour in her room. I busy myself with laundry. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Reyes, does most of the laundry, but I have nothing pressing tonight with the start of training camp tomorrow. Add in the preseason nerves, and I need to keep busy.
After I do some laundry, I hear them move into Tabby’s room. Tabby doesn’t say much, but I hear June cooing over Tabby’s things. I linger upstairs, finding reasons to walk by the room so I can peek at them. When I can’t figure out anything else to do upstairs, I decide to order dinner. I stop at the door and ask June if she likes pizza.
“Yes,” she answers, lifting her head from a stack of Tabby’s painting. “Thank you,” she says, but her gritted teeth ruin the sentiment. I scowl back before I head downstairs, leaving them in the upstairs playroom.
I place the order and retreat to my downstairs office to watch film. After the pizza arrives, dinner is quiet. I try to talk to Tabby about school, but she clams up as usual. She gobbles down a slice and a half of pizza and then asks to be excused. I nod, and she scurries into the living room. The drone of the television follows her.
June and I eat the rest of our pizza in silence, seated across from each other at the island in my kitchen. She shifts in her seat. Finally, she asks, “So, how long have you lived here?” Her brown eyes are wide, genuinely curious.
“Nine years.” I motion to her plate. “Finished?”
She nods. “Nine years. You must have been really young when you bought it, right?”
“Yes. Twenty.” That had been a big year. After my rookie year with the Tyrants, management extended my contract, made me a franchise player. I met Sonya, a recent graduate from Penn, down at the shore. By the end of summer, I was married, had bought the house I assumed we would raise our family in, and planned to retire in Philadelphia. I marvel at twenty-year-old Emmett York’s idyllic visions. “Listen, June—”
“That’s how you start unpleasant conversations.” She folds her napkin and flattens it under her fingers on the counter. “Terminal illness, breakups…”
I continue as she trails off. “We don’t need to be friends.”
