Page 36 of Just My Ex

Who isn’t sick at all, but rather, happily playing with the dollhouse Sebastian made for her.

Yes, he made her a dollhouse, and I feel a little inferior about that. And I know I can’t make it about me. I’m really glad she has so many people who love her.

But it’s a reminder about how in my own life I’ve been for so long. I need to do something special for her—make her something.

While simultaneously stressing about Quinn’s safety and checking the security feeds at The Summit restaurant, which conveniently is on the same floor of the suite, I play with Navie. She’s in a new phase—a Matchbox car phase—and I couldn’t be prouder.

“This one is a 1972 Camero,” I say, plucking it down from the top floor of the dollhouse, which she’s turned into a parking garage. I return to a cross-legged position.

“Camero,” she repeats, sitting up on her knees. She takes it from me and strikes it against her palm, making the wheels spin.

“Yeah.” I grab another one. “And this blue one’s best for driving on a desert road: a Jeep Wrangler. And if you want to go on a picnic in the mountains, we could go in this one.” I show her a black Land Rover Defender.

She takes the cars from me and opens one of the doors of the Land Rover. “I want to go on a picnic with you and Mommy.”

I swallow down the ache. “We should.” I peer at the car in her hand, and she holds it closer to my face so I can see it better. “I see you there, in the backseat,” I tease. “Oh. Yep. There you are. And there’s your sippy cup and your puppies. And your tummy’s growling because you’re hungry for sandwiches.”

She giggles. I don’t think the sound of her laugh won’t ever simultaneously wreck me and fill me.

She brings the car close to her eye. “I see you in there. And Mommy.”

“Am I driving fast?”

“You’re not driving. Mommy is.”

I chuckle. “I see. Smart idea.”

This whole family togetherness idea is threatening to make me forget everything and beg my daughter her forgiveness, march right into Quinn’s dinner and ask her to start all over again, to forget this whole incredibly terrible idea of divorce and a life apart and try again.

But I can’t, obviously.

I’m here to protect them, and to be a better father to Navie. To make amends and right as many wrongs as I can. And yes, I want to start over with Quinn, no doubt about that. But I can’t force that. I have to focus on what I can control, which is how I show up for Navie.

We play the rest of the night, and she even gets me coloring, which is so out of my wheelhouse, I’m barely even able to hold a crayon the right way.

Far too soon, it’s her bedtime. A small part of me feels ready for a reprieve … being a dad is no joke, and I’ve been out of practice. Was I ever in practice?

Once she’s bathed and I’ve brushed her teeth, I comb out her wet hair with a wide-tooth comb, making straight, even lines in her hair while she looks at herself in the mirror. I tuck her in and make my way back to the great room of the suite, seeing the chaos that has ensued. Dishes are stacked in the small sink, Matchbox cars are scattered all over the floor, and there’s a smattering of cracker dust on the tile floor.

I clean up, but I’m not so busy that I forget to check the camera feed every five minutes. Some habits are ingrained.

From what I can see of Quinn’s and Marley’s body language and posture, they’re fine, enjoying themselves, even.

I pull up the documents I sent Quinn to see if she’d filled more of them out. She hasn’t, but I can see from the timestamp that she’d opened it this afternoon. Good. At least she’s familiarizing herself with it. I guess that’s all I can ask for. If Quinn were my actual client, I’d probably have more pull in what I could request.

There’s also a new email from my boss, Carla, with the flight arrangements to Bern next month and a note saying that Evangeline, the 80-year-old matriarch of the Ostlin family, is relieved I’ve agreed to the assignment, and she’ll take me to her favorite restaurant in Bern as a thank you.

The thought of getting back to work, though, holds a temptation, a siren’s song. Work. Where I follow people around in an effort to forget about my own life. Sounds like paradise sometimes.

Except, the thought of leaving Quinn and Navie again makes me feel sick to my stomach.

What I’m not allowed to tell anyone is that Bern is temporary, only a few months, and then after that, I’m quitting for good. I have enough in the bank to make a clean break and take my time finding something different, something hopefully a whole lot closer to Irvine.

I check the closed-circuit feeds again, doing my normal sweep, and when it gets back around to Quinn and Marley, there’s a notable difference. Quinn’s shoulders have gone up, her back has straightened, and she’s pushed her half-eaten meal to the side.

I’m up and out of the suite in seconds, locking the door behind me and glancing at the monitor app tied to the baby monitor Quinn installed in the bedroom.

I reach the restaurant, where the maître d’ recognizes me and lets me in. As I’m escorted to Quinn’s table, I see her in a dress I recognize. It’s black and looks like a long men’s collared shirt. But she wears a belt with it, so it fits her just right.

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