Page 86 of The Wrong Boss

“Yes,” I replied. “But I knew him before too.”

“Oh.” Her shoes crunched on gravel that had gathered on the edge of the pavement as we stepped onto the asphalt to cross the street.

She said nothing more about it, and the truth stayed lodged somewhere in my throat. When we got home, Evie ran to Hailey and told her all about the play. She mentioned Cole, which raised Hailey’s eyebrows. I shook my head, motioning to Hailey that I didn’t want to talk about it.

As Evie began to sing the tunes she remembered from the show, my phone vibrated. Kaia. I answered and had a short, brutal conversation that I’d known was coming all along:

“Carrie?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve just spoken to Mr. Christianson, and we’re going to have to let you go.”

The pain in my heart intensified, but my voice remained steady. “I see.”

“I’m sorry, Carrie,” Kaia said, sounding gentler. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve been a fantastic team member. I can’t imagine why he would want to let you go.”

Bitterness curled the corners of my lips. “That’s okay. I understand.”

“We can ship your personal effects to the address we have on file.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause, and then Kaia said, “Good luck.”

We hung up, and I turned to watch my daughter do a twirl, the way the protagonist of the play had done on stage. Hailey was smiling at her, but her eyes were flicking over to me.

And suddenly, I wastired.

Tired of all these secrets. It was my fault that Cole had found out the way he had; I should have told him about Evie after our very first meeting. My cowardice had stayed my tongue. I’d been afraid of everything: losing the stability of my paycheck. Losing my time with my daughter. Losing the chance to catch just one more glimpse of the man who’d cut through my life like a chainsaw.

Indulging that fear was what landed me right here. Jobless and loveless, with the looming threat of that custody battle I’d wanted to avoid. Or worse—maybe Evie’s father would want nothing to do with her at all.

As the day wore on, filled with all the normal, routine tasks of a normal, routine life with a six-year-old, my anger at myself sharpened. Why was I so afraid? That fear was what had kept me in that awful relationship with Derek. It was what stopped me from telling Cole I felt a connection to him the first time I met him. It was what had kept me working for Mr. Wentworth for far longer than I should have, which affected my finances and my daughter’s future.

Fear was a noose around my neck, and I was sick of feeling the rasp of the rope against my skin. So, after the dinner dishes had been cleared, I turned to my daughter and asked her if she wanted to get some ice cream with me.

She brightened. “Yes!”

The fancy ice cream shop in our neighborhood was only open during the warmer months, so we donned our jackets and shoes and headed to the closest corner store. Evie considered the flavors in the freezer like it was the most important decision of her life and ended up getting the same one she always picked: chocolate chip cookie dough studded in a creamy vanilla base. We bought two pints, and I grabbed a couple of plastic spoons from the counter and walked with my daughter to the nearest park.

The night was cool, with the hint of winter in the air, but we were bundled up and the path was well-lit. I sat on a park bench and motioned for Evie to hop up. I handed her one of the pints and took the second one for myself. Evie’s eyes widened; she never got the whole pint to herself, and we never ate directly from the carton.

But hey—I said I was sick of feeling afraid. I never said I was above bribery.

We ate a couple of bites, and I gathered my thoughts. Fear was sticky black tar in the pit of my gut. I didn’t want to talk to Evie. I wanted to stay in our little bubble, safe and secure, where all Evie had to worry about was spelling bees and ice cream flavors. I didn’t want to have to talk to her about difficult topics. I didn’t want to see her in pain, even though I knew that whether or not Cole wanted to be present, she would experience some kind of hurt. That was life. I couldn’t stop it, and being afraid of potential pain would only make it worse in the long run. I’d learned that lesson pretty plainly earlier today.

Finally, sick of myself for my hesitation, I took a deep breath. “Evie, do you remember what I said about your father?”

She chewed a piece of cookie dough as she turned to squint at me. “You said he was a nice man.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “And remember how I lost touch with him before you came along?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, digging into her ice cream for a big piece of cookie dough. She wore wool mittens and struggled to get a good grip, so she pinned the pint between her legs as she went hunting for the perfect bite.

I put my arm on the bench behind her shoulders and swallowed thickly. “If I got in touch with your father again, would you want to meet him?”

“Sure,” she said, freeing the cookie dough chunk from its ice cream prison. She ate it, wiggling happily. With her mouth full, she asked, “Did you find him?”

---