Page 30 of Imperfect Arrangement
Her tiny hand reaches up to smooth the frown on my forehead, pulling me back to the present. I glance down to find Quill watching me with that quiet, wise expression that makes her seem far older than six.
“All okay, Daddy?” she signs before her hand rests on my cheek.
“Everything’s perfect, Bug,” I say out loud. Her therapist has strictly advised us to always reply to her in words. Who knows what might prompt her to speak.
“You know this is a grown-up book, right?” I tap the illustrated cover, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m not even sure I understand half of it.”
Quill giggles silently, her tiny shoulders shaking in that way that never fails to make me smile. “I like the pictures,” she signs, and my heart slows down, settling back to its usual rhythm.
Thank God. My daughter is still just a kid.
I flip open the book to the first page, where four girls are huddled by a fireplace on a cold winter night.
“Dad,” Quill signs, slower this time, like she’s really thinking through her words. “Can I be a writer?”
I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. “You can be anything you want, Bug. Follow your dreams and don’t stop until you catch them.”
She beams, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I told Willow I want to be a writer.”
My heart skips a beat. Willow. I haven’t heard a peep from her since our very brief, very unfinished breakfast meeting, not that I’m counting the hours or anything. But now here she is, sneaking into my thoughts through my six-year-old daughter.
“And what did she say?” I try for a casual tone, though it probably sounds like I’m holding my breath.
Quill’s grin widens. “She said I’m her tiny surprise packet.”
Surprise packet? Yeah, that sounds like Willow.
“You like Willow, don’t you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Some part of me just needs to hear that bringing Willow into Quill’s life as her nanny is the right call.
Quill nods with all the excitement in the world. “And also Captain Lick.”
The dog. Of course.
* * *
I’m glaringat my phone like it personally offended me, hoping it’ll vibrate. But it’s radio silent, which only solidifies my personal crusade against anyone who thinks manifesting actually works. Because ever since I tucked Quill into bed, watched her drift off mid-sentence, came back to my room, and changed for the night, all I’ve been able to think about is Willow’s answer. And still, nothing. No text. No call. Not even a half-hearted “Still thinking about it.”
I reach up to adjust my tie before realizing I’m not wearing one. Perfect. Here I am, standing dead center in my own room—the place that’s supposed to calm me—and feeling like the walls are closing in. I stride across to my nightstand and yank open the drawer, and there, sandwiched between an unread novel and a cologne bottle, is a neglected pack of cigarettes I haven’t touched in weeks.
I don’t smoke these days, but tonight? Tonight, I need something to keep my hands busy before I do something reckless, like text her first.
I step out under the pergola and a gentle breeze washes over me as if it’s trying to tell me that everything is fine, that the world is calm. But I know better. I light up and take a slow drag as I look out over the sprawling estate. Normally, this view relaxes me. Tonight, it feels…off. My fingers twitch to grab my phone and demand an answer. Hell, I should have left the damn thing inside.
But it’s too late now.
Without a second thought, I pull out my phone, unlock it, and send a quick text before I can convince myself otherwise.
Me: Have you thought about it?
Her reply comes faster than I expect.
Miss Pershing, the bane of my existence: You still want to go ahead with this crazy idea?
Me: I didn’t make the offer to retract it.
Miss Pershing, the bane of my existence: I…I’m in. But I’m telling you now, I’m getting the better end of this deal. Don’t come complaining later.
My fist tightens around the phone, where her text reminds me again that this all might just be another failed attempt for me as a dad. And before that disappointment swallows me entirely, another text comes.
