Page 70 of Imperfect Arrangement
“Now get in bed, Quillbug.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture my Quill asking something more.
“Really? Your obsession with these books is verging into crazy territory,” Willow says, her tone mock exasperated. “I thought you’d be too tired to listen to them twice in the same evening.”
I let my eyes drift shut, imagining the scene. I can almost see Willow standing there, hands on her hips, rolling her eyes at my daughter in that way only she can.
“You don’t like when I call you crazy? Too bad,” she continues, and I can hear the smile creeping into her voice. “But when you ask me and your dad to read the same pages in the same evening, you practically earn that label, my silly-milly Miss Teager.”
And then it happens—a sound I’ve been waiting six long months to hear—my daughter giggles. A noise so soft, so light, it stops my heart mid-beat. And as if the universe wants me to be sure I’m not hallucinating, she follows it up with words.
Actual words.Not signs. Not gestures.
“You called me silly, Willow.” Quill’s voice is sweet and pure, like every angelic symphony rolled into one.
I lurch out of my chair so fast I bang my knee against the desk. Pain rockets up my leg, but I barely notice. I swallow the curse threatening to escape and cross my office in two giant strides. A second later, I’m standing outside Quill’s room, holding my breath.
“And you are my cutest but most obsessive silly surprise packet.”
Through the narrow crack of the door, I watch as Willow gently ruffles Quill’s hair. My daughter scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue.
“I’m not silly.” Her voice again. My daughter’s voice.
The sound knocks the wind out of me. My heart thuds so hard in my chest it feels like I might black out. My legs go weak, and I slap my hand against the wall to steady myself, desperate not to fall and ruin this fragile, perfect moment. But I’m not as stealthy as I think. When I glance back at the room, Willow is staring straight at me through the gap in the door. Her hazel eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything feels suspended—time, sound, space.
Guilt hits me hard. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, and the truth is, I don’t want to be. What Iwantis to walk in there, to hear everything Quill says, to soak in her every syllable like they’re oxygen. But that’s not our reality. Not yet.
I know the second I step inside, the spell will break. She’ll retreat, fall back into the silence that has blanketed our lives for months.
I can’t risk it. Not tonight.
Someday, I want the walls of this house to echo with her laughter, to remember the melody of her voice. I want her to feel so safe, so free, that she’ll never hesitate to share her secrets, her fears, and her joys.
As if she can read my mind, Willow shifts slightly, angling herself so that Quill naturally turns her back to the door—and to me. Willow picks up the hairbrush from Quill’s nightstand. “Since you get two versions of the same story every day, which one do you like better? Mine or your dad’s?”
The question lands with an unspoken weight, and I know instantly what she’s doing. I’d asked Quill the same thing the first night Willow stepped into our house. While my motives were purely selfish, I know Willow is asking for my benefit.
Quill giggles—again—and my heart stutters. “I like both,” she says.
“Of course you do,” Willow says, brushing Quill’s hair with easy strokes. “You’ve got everyone wrapped around your little finger. So tell me, what are your favorite things to do with your dad? Besides reading, of course.”
Quill doesn’t miss a beat. “I love when he braids my hair. I love when we shop online for clothes. I also love when he falls asleep in my room while reading. He’s so warm, and he snores like a big bear. Oh, and I love when he blows raspberries and kisses on my cheek, and I also love when the hair of his chin prickles my face.”
My hand instinctively grazes my jawline, where my five o’clock shadow lingers, and a goofy grin spreads across my face. My kid likes my beard? That’s…unexpected.
“Willow, how do you like the hair on my dad’s chin?” Quill asks. “Did it prickle when he caught you that day?”
Willow’s cheeks flush a rosy pink. She ducks her head, her lips twitching as if trying to suppress a smile. My grin only grows as she mumbles, “It was fine.”
But Quill is far from done. “And do you like it when my dad braids your hair?”
“Yes, that’s fine too,” Willow replies quickly.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. My little bug has managed to fluster Willow Pershing—a sight that’s a rarity. My hand slips into my pocket and brushes against my phone. The urge to hit record is strong, to capture Quill’s words so I can replay them a thousand times over. But then I stop myself. I don’t want a recording. I want this. Every day. The sound of her words, her thoughts, her laughter filling this house.
“Okay, enough questions for tonight,” Willow announces, her tone soft but firm as she sets the brush aside. “Bedtime, Quillbug. I’ll read just one page tonight since it’s already late.”
Willow’s voice dips into her storytelling cadence, and like always, she enacts all the different characters.
