Chapter 9
AVA
This is a bad idea.
The stupidest, most asinine, most ridiculous idea.
Yet, here I am, grabbing Anderson by the arm and pulling him into my apartment, pasting hearts over my eyes—ones I don’t really have to fake when I see him—as I shut the door behind us.
“Please,” I whisper as I walk him into my apartment. “Play along.”
“Done,” he whispers back instantly, and I ignore the way butterflies dance in my stomach. His agreeing to help me take care of this without even a second thought—or any knowledge as to what he just signed on for—isn’t something I’m used to.
I wrap my arm around his bicep, ignoring the bulging muscle I feel, even beneath his jacket and hoodie, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell of him, the memories of all of our nights together threatening to flood my brain at the worst possible moment.
Pushing all these thoughts and weird feelings away, I walk him toward my dining table. “Sorry about this, Patricia,” I say to Georgie’s social worker when we come into view.
The middle-aged woman is sitting at the seat across the dining table, a legal pad placed neatly in front of her. Her graying hair is pulled back in a tidy bun, her glasses perched low on her nose.
In the hour that she’s been here, I can already tell by her careful posture, measured gaze, and the way she scribbles her notes that she is cataloging every small detail the room gives away.
It’s unnerving, feeling like you’re being analyzed from every perspective, and my compulsions have been making me feel like a hand is wrapping around my throat, taking away my breath, before granting me a small reprieve—just to do it all over again.
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” she says in her soft, reassuring voice that she’s used all night.
I don’t have it in me to look at Georgie right now—not wanting to worry her any more than she already is with the social worker being here tonight.
Right now, I need to put on the best show of my life.
For her.
From the moment introductions were done tonight, Patricia cut to the chase, carefully explaining that CPS will be taking my entire life into consideration to decide if I can reliably support Georgie.
And while I know she means well and that her job requires her to prioritize logistics over judgment, I instantly realize I have an uphill battle to climb.
Living in a two-bedroom apartment with one other person already isn’t an ideal setup for a thirteen-year-old—she doesn’t have her own space, which is immediately a red flag.
On top of that, my job isn’t a standard Monday-through-Friday, nine-to-five sort of gig. My hours change weekly, requiring me to cover shifts the other baristas can’t, meaning longer, less predictable hours—red flag number two.
Patricia also mentioned that a managerial position has perceived stress and responsibility with less ability to step away from work—red flag number three.
And because I don’t have nearby family support, it all raises questions about whether I have backup care and a support system for Georgie and me. With Phoebe having just moved to a hospital in Illinois, and Jasmine studying abroad in Paris for the next year, my sisters aren’t an option.
There’s Rumi and Jack, but they have their own daughter who takes precedence, so that leaves Emerson as my main support system. But with her already picking up my slack at Hey Honey’s, it doesn’t leave her with much time to support.
I thought about explaining how Rumi and I balanced both of our jobs at the coffee shop while also taking care of her daughter for that first year of her life, but I ultimately decided that explaining that to Patricia might worsen my case further.
My plan to bring Georgie to work with me anytime she isn’t at school also didn’t seem like the right hill to die on.
Neither did choosing that moment to ask her opinion on how long a teenager can be left alone at home.
Sadly, CPS looks for more than just good intentions and love, Patricia had said.
All of this considered, it’s quite possible my space, schedule flexibility, and support system aren’t conducive to becoming Georgie’s primary caregiver, at least in the eyes of Child Protective Services.
I feel Anderson’s hip gently bump into my side from where he stands next to me, the rest of the room waiting for my next move.
It takes me a moment to come back to myself—letting a mask of confidence I don’t actually feel slip down over my face.
“I forgot to tell Anderson about your visit with us tonight,” I start, making it all up as I go, but knowing full well where I’m inevitably headed—I just hope Anderson doesn’t change his mind about playing along when he realizes exactly what I meant when I asked him to.
“And how we are going to have to reschedule our Valentine’s Day plans.
” I turn to Anderson, having to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
He hides his confusion well. “No problem. I don’t mind rescheduling.”
My lips part to continue, but words die on the tip of my tongue. His usual, laid-back demeanor is all I find as he looks down at me. His lips tilt up in that lazy smile, calming me instantly and having my spiraling thoughts completely scatter.
I’ve looked into Anderson’s eyes before, and I’ve seen them enough to know what they look like—that rich caramel color with flecks of gold that shine one way in the moonlight and another way in the sun.
But I’ve also always noticed the way there’s a longing in his gaze.
Like he has more to say to me than he lets on.
I can’t fight this feeling that there’s always something more in the depths of his irises, like he wants my answer to a question he’s too nervous to ask.
A throat clearing across the table is like a bucket of cold water pouring over me.
Anderson’s cheeks immediately blush, something I’ve only seen in the darkness of his bedroom, but he recovers quickly. “I’m just glad I got to see you tonight, love.”
The nickname sends a tingle down my spine, just like it always does, but I try not to react. There’s a beat of awkward silence as he, along with my sister and Patricia, wait for me to prompt our next move,
“Why don’t you join us?” I tell him, and he nods slowly, before turning to look at our company with a polite smile, pulling out my chair for me to sit.
“If that’s okay with everyone,” he says as I slowly sink into my chair. I follow his gaze, finding it on Georgie. He watches her as she plays with the strings of her sweatpants, eyes in her lap, and shoulders drawn in like she’s trying to be as small as possible.
There’s a gentleness over his features as if he’s trying to assure her that she’s safe with him, and it causes a slight ache in my chest.
He’s close enough to rest his hand on my thigh, reminding me of all the times he’s touched me—always with a timid tenderness, like he’s not really sure I’m there, reaching out to touch me before I disappear.
When I heard the knock on the door, it was like a moment of divine intervention, giving me a distraction from the anxiety threatening to crush me under its weight.
Talking with Patricia started to feel less like a conversation and more like being quietly measured.
Every answer I gave her seemed to expose another gap—my job, my apartment, the fact that there’s no immediate family close by, only a few friends that I knew would help at a moment’s notice, but CPS didn’t.
Patricia had just asked about other relationships besides my close friendships, specifically romantic ones, and the knock gave me a second to get my bearings before I had to go back to digging myself into a bigger hole with the answer to that question.
As I walked to the door, my thoughts were swirling so fast and so loud that tapping my thumbs against the pad of each of my fingers, counting until I got to seventeen, and immediately starting again, was the small relief I needed.
It took me a second to open the door, needing to get to seventeen taps before I could even think about turning the knob, and when I looked through the peephole, seeing Anderson was like an eraser across a whiteboard full of writing—every thought I had ceased, allowing me to finish my counting and open the door, not needing to start all over again.
I was able to just focus on what was in front of me—not forget entirely what was playing out in my dining room, but at least not feel like my body was in one place while my mind was in another.
My eyes focused on the way Anderson’s shaggy brown hair curled at the nape of his neck, and my nose caught the smell of his woodsy, spicy aftershave. I noticed how his weight shifted from one foot to the other—like he was nervous to be knocking on my door.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over how ridiculously adorable he was when he thought he was interrupting a date or something of the sort—I didn’t even remember that today is Valentine’s Day—and I’m still curious as to why he’s even here in the first place.
But when the thought crossed my mind, how Anderson might be the key to convincing CPS that I’m fit to be Georgie’s guardian, it was like the fog thinned enough for me to see clearly for the first time all night—for the first time since I got Georgie’s call.
Anderson squeezes my thigh gently, and that’s when I realize I’m still staring down at his hand—while the rest of the room is staring at me. He raises his brow, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes are full of questions I don’t have the time to answer.
Tucking a loose curl behind my ear, I clear my throat. “Anderson, this is Patricia. She’s Georgie’s social worker.”
Anderson’s eyes slightly widen, but he keeps the rest of his features schooled. He turns toward Patricia, where she sits across from me, and holds out his hand. She sets down her pen, giving Anderson a warm smile as she shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Ava’s fr—”