With a lawyer and a history professor as foster parents, talking at the table was practically mandatory—especially on those rare occasions our schedules put us all in one place at the same time. A comforting cacophony, was how Rick once described it, and I agreed. Quiet to me is more punishment than a chance for meditation. It’s not relaxing. It’s nerve-wracking. It gives me all the time I need to second-guess and doubt myself.
Elliot’s silence is particularly disturbing. He’s been talking since we met. Is he still thinking about Rue’s near miss and planning ways to childproof his new house? Is he angry with me for talking to her about her mother and making her, even temporarily, sad? Is he rethinking this invitation entirely, or worrying that I’m going to jump over the table and sexually assault him in front of his child?
I don’t know. Because he’s not talking.
“So, what kind of trouble are you two planning while I’m hanging pictures in my office today?” I ask.
Elliot glances up, mouth full and lips buttery. Okay, fine. He can’t answer right now.
“Rue?” I turn my gaze in her direction hopefully, and she doesn’t let me down.
She sits up straighter, one hand clutching her fork and the other brushing back her hair in a very adult move that unfortunately coats a few flyaway strands in syrup. Breakfast is a messy business.
Still, after she untangles her fingers, she responds. “Swimming class with Adria. Then hot chocolate. Then Daddy is taking me to buy houses.”
“We’re looking at houses to find the right one,” he corrects gently after swallowing. He sets his fork down, his brow furrowed. “Didn’t you go to swimming lessons yesterday?”
Now it’s Rue’s cheeks that are stuffed but she nods while trying to chew. “We swim every day now,” she garbles, swallowing the rest with a large gulp of juice before smiling at me in triumph. “That was a lot of calories.”
“I think you’ve got me beat.”
“Who signed you up for daily lessons, Rutabaga?” Elliot asks.
“Nana. Adria does it, and I’m like a dolphin. I’m a nature at it. I’m helping her.”
A natural?
His mother shouldn’t be signing Rue up for things without talking to him, but he did say he wants her involved in more activities with kids her age. And I suppose swimming is better than sitting at home playing videogames.
Do as I say, not as I do.
Elliot doesn’t look happy.
“Lessons are important,” I say, tapping his foot with mine so he’ll follow my lead. “But if you ever want to take a day off from lessons and still be a dolphin, I know a place.”
“What place?” She’s hooked already.
“I heard there’s an indoor waterpark not too far from here.” Bellamy House went there at the end of summer and the kids already want to go again. Because it’s inside, it’s open year-round. “Maybe you and your dad could take Adria there instead of lessons. They have waterslides and games and everything.”
“Waterslides?” At this information, Rue hops down from her stool and heads straight for Elliot, wrapping her arms as far as they can go around his waist and squeezing as tight as she can. “Is it a day off today, Daddy? Can you take us there? Please?”
My heart might not survive the expression on his face. That moment of bewilderment followed by a fierce joy he doesn’t try to conceal. His love for her is beautiful and it slays me on the spot. He rubs her back, reining in that blinding light before picking her up and setting her on his lap. “I think we have to since you made us your special pancakes.”
“You liked them?”
“I loved them.”
Her smile is shy. “You helped.”
I’m on my feet before I realize it. I need to go. There’s an ache in my chest that isn’t supposed to be there and I’m sure these two don’t need a third wheel hanging around while they’re having a moment. I glance over my shoulder toward my balcony, then back to his apartment, wondering which option would be less obvious.
Getting kabobbed would be pretty obvious. And there’s no bouncy castle to break my fall here.
“You’re leaving?”
“Have to,” I tell him apologetically, still clutching the napkin in my hand like a lifeline. “So much time and so little to do. Strike that. Reverse it.”
From his blank look I know he doesn’t get the Wonka reference. I want to ask who raised him, but then I remember his mother’s voice on the phone.
Not even Wonka? What is wrong with her?
“It’s early,” Elliot argues, still looking confused.
“I know, but I really do have to work. Plus, I’ve got that big date later, so I might need to find a dry cleaner.”
Audience boos.
Or they would, if my life was a show about a man with a foot stuck in his mouth, filmed before a live studio audience.