Page 56 of Play Book

She makes a face. “There are different kinds?”

I realize she probably has no idea about oat milk or any other trendy thing people eat or drink.

“I meant full fat or two percent or whatever.”

“Oh. Full fat, I guess. That’s what Mom buys.”

Amazingly, she’s intrigued by the service I use and eventually pulls the laptop in front of her and takes over inputting our order. For twenty minutes, it feels like we’re making progress. But once I place the order she’s done. Headphones back on, movie going, completely ignoring me.

Giving me time to think about all the things I’ve let slide the last couple of days and all the things I need to do in the near future.

Like call Saylor to let her know what’s going on.

Figure out how to make a life for an eleven-year-old.

Find a balance between being a single parent to a kid I don’t know and playing pro hockey.

So. Many. Things.

One step, one day at a time, I repeat to myself. It’ll come together.

It has to.

And maybe one day soon I’ll believe it.

SEVENTEEN

Saylor

Having Stevie helping out at the shop has been a good thing. She’s a quick learner, and all the years of modeling and acting make her perfect for sales. She knows how to smile, even when she doesn’t want to, and seems to genuinely enjoy my art so I’m hopeful this works out. For both of us. Her continued sadness is almost palpable, and I hate what she’s gone through, so this is a good distraction for her. She has the opportunity to talk to clients all day long, which I think is exactly what she needs.

Not that there’s much to sell right now.

The gallery is embarrassingly bare.

My bank account is full, but people will lose interest if I don’t have anything to put up on the walls sooner rather than later.

That’s why Stevie and I started brainstorming about doing art classes. One for kids and one for adults. It’s not about the money so much as keeping people interested and making the gallery look busy.

“I set up an online form on your website,” Stevie says after she’d been at the gallery for a week.

I’d come in this morning to pick up mail and check on things, and to find her doing something on the computer. “And you’ve already got three people signed up for the adult class…” She pauses dramatically. “And eight for the kids’ class!”

“Eight!” I gape at her. “Oh my God, Stevie, I thought this was hypothetical.”

“Hypothetical? I told you I was doing the forms. They’re six-week classes, just like we talked about, once a week. The kids’ class is for ages ten to fifteen and starts in two weeks. The adult class starts next week.”

“Only three people?” I ask, staring at the form she just pulled up, showing me the list of students.

“Of course, Bertie signed up.” I shake my head fondly.

“I might take it too,” she says quietly. “I need to keep busy and something creative might be beneficial. At least, that’s what my therapist said. Yoga doesn’t seem to be cutting it, but I’m trying.”

“You’ve had a rough few months,” I assure her. “You’re doing great.”

“My agent wants me to go back to work,” she admits.

“And?”

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