Page 32 of The Single Dad

“Um… painting, mostly,” I say, turning back to him. “Oils, acrylics, some watercolor.”

“What got you into it? How long have you been doing it?”

I’m taken aback at his questions, but I manage to respond, “Well, I started doing it at the community center when I was a kid. I took some art classes in college, just as electives. It’s just a hobby—nothing I would make a career out of. But it’s… important to me. It brings me peace.”

He nods sagely. “That’s good. Everyone needs something like that.”

“Do you have something like that?”

“Work,” he says simply.

“Work?” I cock my head to the side. “That’s not really a hobby, is it?”

His eyes warm a little at that, and he almost chuckles. It’s a brief thing, the amusement on his face; then it’s gone, to be replaced by the same cool, detached expression as before.

“Go ahead and set up your easel,” he says, a clear dismissal in his voice.

I leave the office, my head spinning. The man is a walking enigma. No matter how I look at him or think about him, I just can’t figure him out.

Chapter 10

Riley

After I ask Mr. Sullivan about my easel, things seem to thaw a little between us. At the very least, it isn’t actively tense in this house.

He’s still aloof, and distant, and difficult to talk to, but he doesn’t avoid me as much. In the mornings, when I get to the kitchen and run into him, he’ll make small talk with me as he pours me a cup of coffee.

Sometimes, we even have short conversations in the evening, after Archie goes to bed. They’re always light and surface-level, and I still haven’t mustered up the courage to let my guard down around him and take him up on a drink.

But it’s nice. It’s more relaxed. We’re finally getting along.

That’s good. That’s exactly what I want—to get along.

I do my best not to think about the night I saw him jerking off. I try to pretend that the image of his cock in his hand never flashes through my mind. It’s not quite working.

Because now that things are easier between us, it’s getting harder to keep my eyes off of him, and harder to mask my attraction to him. Sometimes, if Archie does something particularly cute or if I manage to actually land a joke, I can see his lips twitch like he’s on the verge of smiling.

I really, really want to see him smile.

And that’s… not ideal.

In fact, I’d go so far as to call it dangerous.

* * *

A week later, I leave Mr. Sullivan’s house in the middle of the afternoon to head over to Archie’s preschool. The class is putting on a little concert today for the parents, and since I know Mr. Sullivan won’t be able to attend, I promised Archie that I would be there to watch.

Archie’s preschool is on the second and third floors of a tall building. I take the elevator up and find my way through the wide corridors, surrounded by children’s finger paintings and macaroni art, until I arrive in the music room.

It’s a large space, considering the limited real estate in the city—but then, Mr. Sullivan made sure to send Archie to the best preschool he could find, so this makes sense. There are musical instruments everywhere, from colorful xylophones to a grand piano by the windows.

The kids stand nervously on risers at one side of the room. They’re all young enough that this is probably their first time performing anything in front of an audience, so they’re not reassured by the fact that the only spectators are their parents.

Archie is in the front row, toward the center of the risers. When he sees me, he perks up and gives me an excited little wave. I smile and wave back, then take my place among the other parents.

The murmuring of the small crowd is hushed as the music teacher comes to the front of the room. “Welcome, everyone,” she says, beaming. “We’re so glad you could all make it to our concert. Your children have been working hard on their singing, and they’re excited to show you what they’ve learned. Isn’t that right?”

She looks over her shoulder at the kids, who all respond with a disjointed chorus of “Yes, Miss Richards.” Some of them—Archie included—genuinely do seem excited. Others look afraid, or bored. Not every child in preschool is cut out to be a performer, I suppose.

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