Page 164 of The Single Dad

Eventually, we pull up in the familiar driveway, and I step out into Cole’s front garden. He holds the door open for me, and I walk into the foyer, looking around at everything with clear eyes. It feels like I never left. There’s the closet I got trapped in, and in the next room, I can see the window where my easel was set up.

I shrug off my sweater and hang it on the coat rack, like I’ve seen countless guests do.

It feels strange, I reflect, to be a visitor to this house. I instinctively feel as though I could walk straight up the stairs and be right at home.

I follow Cole and Archie into the kitchen, and laugh along with their banter as Cole makes dinner. We sit down at the table to eat perfectly-cooked steaks, and the conversation flows easily, all of the earlier awkwardness behind us. It’s fun, and simple, talking to Cole—just like it used to be, during the good times.

The only moment of tension comes when Cole asks me what I’ve been up to since we last spoke. There’s silence for a second as I struggle to answer, grappling with the memory of our last conversation.

He recovers quickly. “Are you enjoying your new job?”

“Yes,” I say, seizing the topic like a lifeline. “It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

He smiles, seeming genuinely pleased for me. “That’s great. You deserve it.”

“I owe it to you,” I add. “Since you’re the one who made it possible.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I made it possible for the community center to finally hire you, something they’ve wanted to do for at least a year. You were the first and only person who came to mind for the position. You were the one who stood out to Lenny.”

I blush, looking down at the napkin in my lap to hide my smile. “Well, thank you, regardless.”

After dinner, I start to help Cole clear the dishes—automatically in “work” mode, since part of my job was keeping things tidy—but he gives me a stern look. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, sinking back into my chair.

“You’re a guest,” he says. “There’s no need for that. Let me take care of it.”

While I’m sitting at the table, enjoying a glass of white wine and trying not to watch Cole’s arms as he does the dishes, Archie leans toward me and whispers, “Do you think Gill is Swimmy’s secret brother?”

“Why would it be a secret?” I reply. “They look just like each other. Here, check it out—”

I pull out my phone, finding a picture of my fish in my camera roll, and show Archie the screen. Archie frowns, inspecting it closely.

“Gill is more purple than Swimmy,” he announces at last. “I don’t think they’re related.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the expert, here.”

I notice that Cole is watching us out of the corner of his eye, a soft smile on his face.

“I painted some pictures while you were gone,” Archie says, and my heart twists a little at his words, the same way it always does whenever something makes me miss him. “Do you want to see?”

“I’d love to,” I answer.

I let Archie guide me out of the dining area, over to the front room where I’d kept my easel. The easel itself is gone, but the floor by the window is coated with a layer of newspapers, just like it was when I was teaching Archie to paint.

There are pieces of painted cardstock lying on the newspaper, bearing a child’s incomprehensible artwork. Archie points to each of them in turn, explaining what’s going on. One of them features Trevor chasing a zebra, and another is a painting of the sheep he loved so much at the petting zoo.

“These are great,” I tell him. “You’re quite the artist.”

Archie beams, sticking out his chest proudly.

After a few minutes of perusing Archie’s artwork, Cole leans his head in from the hallway. “I hate to be a buzzkill, guys, but it’s seven-thirty. You know what that means, bud.”

Archie lets out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world has just settled on his shoulders. “But I want to hang out with Riley.” An idea seems to cross his mind, and he asks, “Can Riley read me a story?”

I look to Cole, meeting his gaze. To my surprise, there’s no storm in his eyes, no doubt or turmoil. He nods, gesturing to the door.

“Please do,” he says to me.

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