Page 31 of The Single Dad

My heart skips a beat in my chest. I stare at him wordlessly.

“None of them will ever stay the night,” he says nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal. “So it’s nothing you’ll need to concern yourself with.”

I feel like there’s a ball of lead in my stomach, but I nod silently.

I’m jealous at the thought of other women in Mr. Sullivan’s bed. I don’t want to be—I try not to be—but I am. I can’t help it.

“Good morning, daddy. Good morning, Riley.” Archie’s high-pitched voice at the kitchen entrance cuts the tension between the two of us abruptly.

“Hey, good morning, buddy,” says Mr. Sullivan, passing me the finished latte. I nod at him in silent thanks, but he barely looks at me. “I was just about to head out. You have a great day at pre-K.”

“Let’s get you some breakfast,” I say to Archie, leading him over to the table. As I get Archie’s breakfast together, Mr. Sullivan leaves the room.

I suppress the rest of my frustration and annoyance at our awkward encounter, focusing instead on Archie.

* * *

For the next few days after our run-in in the bedroom, Mr. Sullivan and I do our best to avoid each other.

I hate feeling like I’m on eggshells around him—after all, I live and work in his house. It’s impossible to stay away from him completely. Eventually, for this to work out, we’re probably going to have to get past this awkwardness.

In order to distract myself from the tension, I do my best to focus on my job. I spend as much time as possible with Archie, playing games or going down the street to get cupcakes at his favorite cafe.

In that time, there are plenty of opportunities for me to get to know Archie better as an individual.

He’s a chatty kid, but most of the time, he talks about his toys and games. He never mentions his mom—or his dad, who I realize I know nothing about at all.

I find myself wondering how old he was when he came to live with Cole. Does he remember his mother at all?

Mr. Sullivan shut down when I brought up Archie’s mother, so I know better than to ask him more about what happened. But regardless of what I know or don’t know, I feel for the little boy. It can’t have been easy, to have such a huge change happen when he was so young.

I’m already attached to him, invested in his life. This job is much better than my position at the restaurant. Working for the Sullivans, I actually get to do what I’ve always been interested in doing: working with children. Making them feel loved. Helping them grow.

Since I started working for Mr. Sullivan, I haven’t had much chance to do any artwork. It’s my main hobby, the thing that I turn to in my spare time. My happy place.

On a Saturday afternoon about two weeks after I started, I finally work up the courage to talk to Mr. Sullivan.

I want to set up my easel downstairs, near one of the large windows in the mostly-unused sunroom at the back of the house. I think it’ll be relatively out of the way there, where there isn’t much foot traffic.

I find Mr. Sullivan upstairs in his office. The door is cracked open, which I take to be a good sign; Mr. Sullivan has kept to his word when it comes to closing and locking doors. I make sure to knock anyway, though, just in case.

“Come in,” he says, sounding distracted.

I step through the door. He’s focused on his laptop, his brow creased in concentration, but as I enter, he looks up at me.

“What can I do for you, Riley?”

It’s the first time we’ve spoken face-to-face in days. I approach his desk tentatively, unsure whether things are going to be awkward between us.

The look on his face is cool and impassive. It’s easy enough to imagine that the night I saw him jerking off never happened.

Emboldened by his distant demeanor, I decide to go for it. “I was wondering if it would be okay if I set up my painting easel somewhere downstairs,” I venture. “In the sunroom, maybe, where it wouldn’t be in the way of things.”

He seems only mildly interested. “Sure, you can set it up. Just be sure not to get any ink or paint anywhere.”

“I won’t,” I promise, excited. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “What kind of artwork do you do?”

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