Page 34 of Fighter
Sera said it with a straight face and all the sincerity I could have wanted, but I still found myself doubting it. “How can you tell?”
Her brow puckered. “She doesn't really talk about you that much, but she watches for you. It's like she expects you or wants you home but doesn't want to admit it.”
I grunted. Certainly wasn't the same as Ava throwing herself into my arms, but it was something. And it sounded real. Sera hadn't made it up to make me feel better, which actually made me feel better. I'd much rather hard truth over contrived fluff, no matter how difficult the truth was to swallow.
And Ava watching for me? I'd take it as a good sign.
“Thanks,” I said.
Sera turned around, untying her apron as she went. The movement drew my eyes to the small of her back, then lower. I looked away. Nope. Definitely couldn't start ogling my new friend. Nanny? What was she?
Nope. Not nanny. Wasn't going there, even if I didn't know why.
“Change from the $200 is on the table,” she said as she folded the apron and put it on top of a stack of unused kitchen towels I had vague memories of buying months ago, and then being unable to find. In their absence, we'd been using bathroom towels.
“Ava fell asleep just before you got home. Her homework is in her backpack and she helped me make her lunch for tomorrow. Dinner is in the fridge.”
“Wait, what?”
Her casual list, rattled off so easily, sent my mind reeling. She'd gone shopping, had change from it, helped Ava do her homework, started to organize my kitchen, put my daughter to bed, and made both lunchanddinner?
Serafina moved over to the table and slowly pulled a jacket on. Clearly, she still favored her ribs. The bruising on her face had receded slightly, but still appeared painful.
“Ava requested BLTs for dinner,” she said, “which is funny because she's so anti-sandwich, but what do you do? I made a BLTA for you because you seem like the healthy kind that would want avocado to go with it. There's an extra that you can have tomorrow for lunch, if you do that kind of thing. And I put on my list to buy you some containers for leftovers because that will be a thing now. So maybe just leave that change from the groceries? I think there's enough to buy the containers.”
My mind raced to catch up, but before I knew it, she had grabbed her ratty black backpack and moved toward the back door. Did she ever stop moving? I snagged the keys off the counter and followed behind.
“Thank you, Sera,” I managed. “This is beyond what I ever expected. I sort of thought you'd just watch Ava and crash on the couch after she went to bed.”
She smiled. “No problem.”
Or maybe that's just what I would do, which made me feel like a bit of an underachiever. No wonder our life was disorganized chaos.
We fell into silence at first as I pulled out of the driveway. My mind spun with more than just surprise, and a little annoyance, that she so easily managed a world that I stumbled over every single day. As if Ava and food and the world of parenting should have been easy.
No, more frustrating than that was the delicious smell of her shampoo. Coconut, which had always been my weakness, and a hint of lime. When we pulled up to the hotel, which I still hated for her, she reached for the door handle, then stopped. Her words came haltingly at first.
“Do you have an issue with people gossiping about you?”
My entire body tightened, like I prepped to take a blow that never came. No amount of mental relaxation softened my muscles though. I strove for casual, but my question came out with a bitter edge.
“Why?” I asked.
Serafina's brow rose. She shrugged. “No big deal, just curious.”
“It's a problem,” I said quietly.
She frowned. “Well, that's stupid.” Her gaze cut out to the parking lot. “Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, Ben. Thanks again.”
With that, she departed with a wave and a flounce of her hair. I watched her all the way to her room, let out a long breath, and then muttered a curse.
Long after she was gone, the car still smelled like Serafina.
The next day, Serafina dropped into the MMA Center around 10:30. The smell of syrup and fried food drifted off of her. She wore her usual Diner outfit, jeans and a black t-shirt with a mostly-clean apron over the front. Her hair spilled out of her ponytail when she stepped inside. Her expression was bright, eyes crinkled with a smile as she greeted my receptionist. I'd just finished a phone consultation when she walked up with her usual winning smile.
“Hey,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“Better than that.” She slapped something onto the counter. When she moved her hand, a silver key lay there. My head lifted.
