Page 74 of One and Only

“Did they let you?”

She nodded. “Tim moved us back to our beds after we fell asleep. When you’ve got six kids in the house—seven after Poppy was born—there’s only so much room for scared kids in the middle of the night.”

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but my eyes were heavy, and after only a moment, Greer slid back down onto her side of the bed, careful not to jostle Olive.

Her eyes found mine in the dark. “No snoring that I heard,” she said lightly. “Did I hog the blankets?”

My lips edged up in a smile. “No.”

“Good,” she answered, voice drowsy and quiet. “G’night, Beckett.”

I didn’t answer right away. I simply watched the rise and fall of her frame as she slipped back into a deep slumber. Olive was facing her, their hands only inches away from each other.

Intimacy, I thought again.

Most people I knew confused the idea of it with sex. With the physical release of one body with another. And maybe that was a big part of it, the willingness and desire to cross those lines too. To let your pleasure loose alongside someone else’s.

But to me, intimacy was trust.

When I tried to apply the lens of logic to what Greer and I were doing, I came up short every single time. It wasn’t logical.

But despite that, I trusted her.

I trusted her with this part of me, the overwhelming desire to be the best father that I could, to prove that I was capable of loving Olive in a far more tangible way than I’d ever been shown growing up.

Even more, I trusted her with Olive.

We’d had such a short amount of time since I met her. Less than a month since I’d walked through the doors of that restaurant.

Logic had no place in this.

But already I couldn’t help but wonder how quiet and empty this house would seem when she wasn’t part of it anymore.

With that thought lingering in the back of my head, it took a long time for me to get back to sleep. But I must have slept hard once I was there because when I pried my eyes open the next morning—the sun was already up, and the bed was empty of the two females who’d previously occupied half the king-size bed.

Normally, when Olive climbed in with me, I woke with a foot somewhere under my ribs, but I took a moment to stretch out with a groan, slinging my hand over my face.

Saturdays when Olive was home usually started with pancakes or waffles or some scrambled eggs, and I wondered if she’d roped Greer into making her breakfast.

I tugged on a T-shirt, scratching my stomach underneath it when I walked out of the room.

I stopped short.

Something had happened in the kitchen, but I couldn’t quite say for sure what it was.

Bowls were on the counter, pancake mix was dripping off the corner, powder dusting areas of the floor between the island and the sink. I ran a hand through my hair, blowing out a harsh breath.

There was a skillet sitting untouched on the stovetop.

No pancakes had been made, of that I was sure.

A burst of sound came from the back deck, and I turned to find the source.

They were both in their pajamas, standing over a giant piece of paper that had come from a roll of paper easily four feet tall. Olive had a paintbrush in her hand and a smudge of red on her face.

Greer was no better. There was some yellow on her arm, which she must have swiped over her forehead.

I approached the slider with a strange mix of trepidation and sweet, warm curiosity.

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