Page 45 of Fire

She reaches back to cover Nell’s eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” She’s backing up while I laugh.

“As I was about to say, I’ll be right out.”

The door clicks shut, and I drag my hands down my face, smiling because I saw the way Ivy looked at me. I saw the appreciation in her eyes.

And I liked it.

* * *

After I get dressed and spend some time in the bathroom, I join Ivy and Nell in the kitchen. There’s a plate for me, filled with pancakes, bacon, and eggs beside a cup of steaming coffee.

Nell waves happily when she sees me. “We made you breakfast.”

“And we’re so sorry to barge in on you like that,” Ivy says, looking equal parts ashamed and delighted. “I promise it won’t happen again. You could say it’s a one-time thing.” She grins as her cheeks blaze red and damn it, I’m starting to hate that phrase almost as much as I hate the idea of us just being friends. Ivy’s never been “just” anything.

“Mama said you were in your underwear but I didn’t see. Here.” Nell pats the table beside my plate. “It’s real good, I promise. Mommy let me do the pancake flipping.”

I sit, my eyes bouncing to Ivy, who definitely did see something. She makes an apologetic face and mouths, “Sorry about that.”

I wave her apology away. It’s not like I’m ashamed of her seeing something she reacquainted herself with last night. Besides, we made a whole person together. The time for modesty has passed.

Smiling, I grab a fork and dig in. “Oh my goodness gracious!” I widen my eyes and make a big deal of rubbing my belly as I chew. “These are literally the best pancakes I’ve ever had. Whoever did the flipping knew exactly what they were doing.”

“It was me! I did the flipping!” Nell wiggles in her seat happily. “I was real careful to do it just like Mommy said. I only broked one but it still tasted good.”

She chatters away as I eat, and this odd warmth settles into my heart. This sense of purpose and fulfillment. I could get used to this. The three of us together.

Breakfasts and shopping and Ivy’s breasts bouncing as I bury myself inside…

Except, she didn’t even stay with me last night, sneaking out of my room like a shitty one-night stand instead. And my skin still smells like chlorine from a midnight swim born of frustration after she left. The good feelings I woke up with start to slip away. This isn’t some sweet daydream where I end up with the woman I always loved, and we raise our daughter together in marital bliss.

This is a clusterfuck of confusion.

“So, I work tomorrow,” I say, physically shaking the thoughts away. “I’m usually out of here by six fifteen, so I don’t know if our paths will cross while you’re getting ready for school or not. I’m home by seven thirty the next morning, but then I usually fall into bed for a few hours.”

Ivy picks off the tiniest bite of pancake and slips it into her mouth. “We won’t be awake before you leave tomorrow, but we’ll be up and moving when you get home the next day. We’ll be quiet as a mouse getting ready for the bus so you can sleep, won’t we Nell?”

“A nonamouse.” She giggles and Ivy joins in. They explain the joke while I finish breakfast, then Nell goes upstairs to play, leaving me alone with her mother. Ivy pops up from the table, grabbing my plate.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I mean for the question to be light, playful even, but her body instantly goes on alert, like she’s preparing for battle.

“The dishes.”

Shit. Is she this tense because of what happened last night? Or does this have more to do with that asshole fiancé of hers? I hate it either way.

“Nope. Not happening,” I say, voice gentle, moving slowly, doing everything I can to calm her nerves and let her know she’s safe. “You cooked. I clean.”

Ivy shakes her head. “It’s the least I can do, considering everything you’ve done for us.”

“Sit.” I point at the chair. “You’re a guest, not a maid.” And you’re you and I’m me and how did I ever talk myself into believing we could be “just friends.”

Ivy sits while I turn on the tap, letting the water run to warm up. “I’m usually the one cooking for other people, so waking up to breakfast was a nice change of pace.”

“You cook? For other people? Aren’t you the guy who burned macaroni when we were fifteen?”

“It’s part of the job,” I say, purposefully avoiding the fact that I forgot a pot of pasta until the water boiled off and the noodles were charred and smoking. “We cook together. Eat together. Work out together.”

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