Chapter 39
David
Idon’t recall the exact moment I started thinking of Nora and forever in the same beat. It wasn’t one cinematic instant. Wasn’t a thunderclap or a single revelation dramatic enough to deserve a soundtrack.
It was an accumulation.
A thousand small moments that quietly dismantled the fortress of my former life.
The first time she fell asleep on my couch with paperwork in her lap and Michaela’s head on her thigh.
The way she automatically checks ingredient labels without being reminded because she remembers Michaela’s cashew allergy better than some blood relatives remember her birthday.
The way Archie has started splitting his allegiance between our places like he’s hedging for shared custody.
The way my daughter looks for Nora in every room now with total confidence that she’ll be there if she said she would.
The way I do the same.
Maybe it started in her kitchen. Or the steps outside the courtroom today when she said ‘our daughter’ and I realized the phrase didn’t startle me because some part of me has already been living there for weeks.
The point is, it happened. Quietly, irrevocably, with the structural permanence of something load-bearing. And now I’m standing in my own kitchen at two-thirty in the afternoon with bourbon in my hand and the woman I want to marry sitting on my couch, and that thought—marry—doesn’t feel reckless.
It feels obvious.
Terrifying, yes. But obvious in the same way the skyline is obvious when you step outside in Chicago and tilt your head up. It’s just there. Solid. Unavoidable. Bigger than you. Part of the landscape now whether you planned for it or not.
Nora’s cross-legged on the couch in one of those wrap dresses she wears when she wants to be comfortable but she knows we’re expecting company, cardigan folded beside her, glasses on because she’s reading through a packet from the board chair.
Archie is stretched along the rug with his chin on her shoe, as if proximity counts as full emotional nourishment.
She’s frowning at the page in concentration, that thinking frown I love, and every time she turns a sheet she smooths it flat first with her palm.
My chest tightens so hard it almost counts as pain.
This is what it’s come to. I’m forty-two years old, partner at my own firm, midway through a custody war, and I’m standing in my kitchen hopelessly in love with the way a woman handles paper.
Hopeless.
The buzzer sounds.
Nora looks up first. “That’ll be Caleb and Serena.”
I set my glass down and cross the apartment, checking the time on instinct even though I already know it. Three minutes to three. Michaela gets home just after three-thirty on Tuesdays if traffic cooperates and if Marta doesn’t let Michaela convince her to stop for boba.
Ever since Marta returned to work, Michaela has been over the moon. She started back the week of Thanksgiving with a new schedule—three days a week instead of full-time—since her mother’s still recovering in Milwaukee and needs continued help, meaning she splits her time between cities.
Michaela loves it. She gets all the routine and structure she craves, with the added thrill of still coming back to my house on Marta’s off days.
She still doesn’t enjoy her visitation days at the Canning residence, so we do what we can to make sure she’s surrounded with love and comfort the moment she comes home.
Leonie always makes her a special dessert, and there are plenty of Archie hugs waiting for her, too.
I open the door to find Serena in a camel coat and high-heeled boots, and Caleb beside her, carrying a white bakery box in one hand and his usual expression of brotherly concern disguised as irritation.
“You look awful,” Serena says by way of greeting.
“Good to see you, too.”
Caleb hands me the box. “She means worried.”
“No. I meant awful,” Serena says, grinning as she presses her cheek to mine and kisses the air. “But we brought emergency carbs from that bakery Michaela likes.”
“Then you meant it accurately,” I say, stepping back to let them in.
Serena breezes past me like she owns at least thirty percent of the building. Caleb follows at a more civilized pace, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
“I have news,” he says, loosening his tie with one hand.
“About?”
“The thing Hargrove said about Nora. Dad handled it. Okafor shut it down. It’s on the record as a fishing expedition, not an established argument. So you don’t need to spiral.”
“I wasn’t spiraling.”
“You’re still dressed for court. You’ve definitely been spiraling.”
I look down. He’s right. I loosen my tie. Take the bakery box into the kitchen and down the last of my bourbon.
“Mm,” Nora says from the couch. “He’s been pacing holes in the floor for twenty-seven minutes, so I can confirm some level of spiraling.”
Traitor.
Serena points at her. “See? This is why I like you.”
Nora finally lifts her head and smiles—soft, tired, so fucking beautiful that my brain briefly stops participating. “Hi, Serena.”
Serena goes straight to her and hugs her carefully around the shoulders, mindful of the papers. “Hi, gorgeous. I brought sugar and intrusive emotional support.”
“That’s exactly your brand,” Nora says.
“Thank you for noticing.”
Caleb crosses into the living room and drops a kiss to the top of Nora’s head. He’s met her a handful of times, and he already treats her like family. “How bad?”
Nora glances at the board packet in her lap. “Could be worse.”
“That’s not an answer,” Serena says, peeling off her coat.
“It’s the only one I have until I finish reading the board chair’s memo.
” Nora slides the glasses down her nose and looks at me instead.
“And before anyone says it, I’m not panicking.
This is just an overly detailed list of their concerns.
It’s not every day the principal discloses their relationship with a parent during an active custody battle. ”
“Surely it’s not the first time faculty has become involved with a parent, though,” Caleb says, taking the packet when Nora holds it up to him.
“No,” Nora says dryly. “But I suspect it’s the first time anyone has filed it in triplicate and attached a potential reputational-impact matrix.”
Serena pauses halfway through unbuttoning her coat. “I’m sorry, a what?”
Nora lifts one shoulder. “They’re educators. We love a matrix.”
“I hate them already,” Serena says.
“You hate everyone initially,” Caleb points out, scanning the first page.
“Yes, but sometimes I’m wrong after I meet them.”
“Has that ever happened?”
She thinks about it. “Once. Layla.”
Nora laughs softly, and the sound eases something in my chest by a fraction.
Caleb drops into the armchair and reads, one ankle over his knee, all expensive-lawyer composure.
Serena perches on the couch beside Nora and immediately starts stealing the pages as Caleb finishes with them.
I stay standing for another moment because sitting feels impossible.
My body seems committed to the fiction that if I keep moving, I’m contributing.
I’m not.
I’m just being exactly the kind of man my brother accused me of being.
I exhale and force myself into the chair opposite the couch.
Archie lifts his head, confirms I’m still alive, and returns his chin to Nora’s shoe.
Caleb reads for another thirty seconds. Then, “This is less catastrophic than it looks.”
My head comes up. “That’s your professional opinion or your smug-younger-brother opinion.”
“I’m never smug.” He offers me a smug grin as he flips a page. “Look, they’re worried about optics—which they should be.” He taps the packet with one finger. “Because schools are institutions and institutions panic when people start looking human. But this is process panic, not termination panic.”
Serena snatches the next page from him. “That’s the most lawyerly distinction I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s an important distinction.”
Nora tucks one leg beneath her and leans back into the couch cushion.
“He’s right. The language is cautious, but it isn’t hostile.
They’re documenting exposure points. Conflict-of-interest concerns, parent perception, media sensitivity if the custody case gets ugly enough to attract attention.
” She pauses. “Which is flattering, in a deeply horrible way. Apparently I’m worth a hypothetical headline. ”
“You’re worth more than that,” I say before I can stop myself.
Three heads turn toward me.
Serena smiles slowly. Caleb looks like he won something. Nora’s mouth softens at the corners.
“Well,” Serena says, “that was disgustingly sincere.”
“I regret all of you.”
“Liar,” she says.
Caleb flips to the final page. “There’s no recommendation for disciplinary action.
They want a formal disclosure on file, a recusal plan for any direct decision-making involving Michaela beyond ordinary student welfare, and a temporary review period.
” He glances at Nora. “Which means what, practically?”
“It means Janet handles any administrative issue that could be construed as preferential treatment or retaliation. Attendance anomalies, parent complaints, teacher assignments if something weird comes up.” She rubs her thumb over the margin of the packet.
“I still function as principal. I just make sure there’s another set of eyes on anything involving Michaela. ”
The lock clicks a second before the door bursts open.
“Objection!” Michaela announces to the apartment at large, backpack sliding off one shoulder, pigtails half-undone, cheeks pink from the cold. “I was denied boba on the grounds that I already had sugar at school which I find discriminatory and possibly unconstitutional.”
Archie’s on his feet instantly, claws skittering on hardwood as he launches himself toward her with the kind of joy usually reserved for reunions after war. Michaela braces, laughing as he nearly knocks her into the wall.
“Archimedes, please,” she says, hugging his neck anyway. “You’re compromising my opening statement.”