Chapter 11
O ver the next few weeks, life with Bekah settled into a comfortable rhythm. The cadence of my days—once defined by legal briefs and meticulous case preparation—expanded and contracted around Rebekah's presence.
Some mornings I woke to find glitter on my kitchen counter from her late-night crafting sessions. Other mornings, the scent of her floral shampoo lingered on my pillow cases hours after she'd left for the shop.
We hadn't formally moved in together, but the lines between our separate lives blurred more each day. My toothbrush had a permanent spot in her cluttered bathroom. Her favorite mug—chipped on one side with "Make Today Sparkle" written in fading letters—sat in my kitchen cabinet. I found myself ending most evenings at her place, or welcoming her into mine, both scenarios feeling surprisingly natural.
The fundraiser had transformed from a professional obligation into something more intimate. We spent hours comparing notes, refining plans, and building something remarkable together. I watched her add details I'd never consider—little touches that brought warmth and personality to what could have been a sterile event.
My day planner—meticulously color-coded as always—now featured Rebekah's looping handwriting in the margins. Where I once had bullet-pointed lists and time-blocked schedules, there were now sparkly doodles and enthusiastic reminders with multiple exclamation points. Even my normally austere to-do lists looked brighter with her additions, transforming mundane tasks into moments I looked forward to.
The townspeople of Small Falls had come to recognize us as a unit. Marie a The Daily Grind no longer asked if we wanted separate receipts. The librarian saved community announcements for both of us. My calm, detail-oriented approach balanced perfectly with Rebekah's exuberant creativity, turning even routine errands into small adventures. When I picked up supplies from the hardware store, Mr. Jennings asked how "our" fundraiser was progressing, not just mine. Somehow, imperceptibly, we'd become a "we."
Turns out, “we” liked shopping together.
Rebekah’s laugh echoed down the narrow aisle of the thrift store, a sound so bright it made the fluorescent lights seem warmer. She was holding up a hideous plush flamingo, its beady black eyes staring me down accusingly.
"Tell me this isn't perfect for the raffle table centerpiece," she said, her voice bubbling with barely-contained mischief.
"That is absolutely not perfect for anything, " I replied, crossing my arms. "It looks like it survived a house fire."
She gasped, clutching the stuffed bird to her chest as though I'd insulted a beloved pet. "Daddy! You have no imagination."
"Trust me, my imagination is working overtime trying to figure out how that thing hasn’t been condemned by the health department." My tone was dry, but the corner of my mouth twitched despite myself.
Her eyes sparkled as she ignored my protest and dropped the flamingo into our cart—a rickety, squeaky contraption already half-filled with an assortment of mismatched decorations for the fundraiser. A garish golden candelabra teetered on top of a pile of secondhand mason jars, and I swore I saw a bag of glitter tucked underneath it all.
"You're impossible," I muttered, steering the cart toward the checkout counter.
"Impossibly inspired?" Rebekah countered, skipping ahead of me and spinning on her heel to walk backward, her skirt swishing around her knees.
"Hmmm, probably just impossible,” I said, arching an eyebrow.
"Rude," she said, sticking her tongue out before turning back around.
This was what the past few weeks had become: an endless tug-of-war between my need for order and her refusal to follow any kind of convention. And somehow, against all odds, I didn’t hate it. In fact, I found myself looking forward to these moments—the chaos she brought to my meticulously planned life.
We loaded the cart onto the counter, and Rebekah immediately started bargaining with the cashier over the price of a dented tin bucket. Her hands flew as she explained how it would be transformed into a rustic flower display for the event’s entrance. The cashier, a teenager with purple hair and an expression of pure apathy, shrugged and rang it up for half-off.
"See? Inspired," Rebekah said, nudging me with her elbow as we wheeled the cart out to the parking lot.
"You're lucky I’m too tired to argue," I said, unlocking my car and popping the trunk.
"You're lucky I’m here to make your life interesting," she shot back, grinning as she unloaded the bags.
Interesting. That was one word for it.
Later that night, as I sat at my kitchen table flipping through my day planner, I noticed her handwriting scrawled in the margins of next week’s schedule. Among perfectly straight inked lines and color-coded highlights, she'd written "Don’t forget to smile" beside Thursday’s list of tasks.
God damn she was lovely.
Her notes were everywhere now—little reminders and doodles scattered across my once-pristine planner. Hearts penciled beside deadlines, stars marking appointments, even a tiny cartoon version of me holding a gavel in one corner.
"What's got you grinning like that?" Rebekah called from the couch, where she was sprawled with a pair of scissors and a roll of ribbon, likely plotting another glitter-based crime.
"Just wondering how I let you take over my life," I said, standing and walking over to her.
"Easy," she replied, glancing up at me with a wink. "You like it."
"Debatable," I said, though my hand reached out instinctively to brush a stray curl from her forehead.
As I stroked her, I checked the planner again. The block of time labeled “Table Rentals Confirmed” was glaringly unmarked, a bright yellow highlight mocking me. My chest tightened as I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the vendor’s email thread one more time, hoping I’d missed an update from her. Nothing.
"Rebekah," I said evenly. "Did you call the table rental company?" My voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. "I—" she started, her voice small, hesitant. "I meant to. I was going to. But it got busy at work yesterday, and then my phone died, and—" She trailed off, biting her lip.
"Baby girl," I said, this time sharper.
"I forgot," she admitted in a whisper. "I’m sorry, Daddy. I really am."
I exhaled slowly, setting the planner down beside her clipboard. My jaw tightened, but seeing the way her hands trembled ever so slightly, the frustration began to ebb. She wasn’t defiant or dismissive—she knew she’d messed up, and the remorse in her eyes was genuine. Still, we had agreed on responsibilities, and hers needed to be taken seriously.
“Good, come with me,” I said firmly, motioning toward the chair. Her head snapped up, eyes wide with a mix of nervousness and understanding. She hesitated for just a moment before nodding, standing and bending over the chair.
“Sweetheart," I began, my tone measured but firm. "We agreed you’d handle these calls. You promised. Do you remember?"
"Yes," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I know. I—I just—"
“Some quick punishment, to remind you not to forget.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
"Over the skirt," I told her softly, keeping my voice steady.
I couldn’t help but marvel at her obedience as she complied, draping herself over the chair with a mix of contrition and anticipation in her eyes. Her peachy ass was on full display, the fabric of her skirt stretched taut over it, begging for the punishment I was about to deliver. With a steady hand, I lifted the hem of her skirt, exposing the delicate skin beneath.
"Six," I said, my palm settling lightly against the fabric before pulling back for the first swat. It landed with a sharp smack , not harsh but firm enough to make her gasp. I delivered five more in quick succession, each one precise, measured, deliberate. By the final one, her shoulders were trembling, though whether from the sting or the emotion, I couldn’t tell.
"All done," I murmured, placing my hand on her lower back and rubbing slow, soothing circles. She let out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against the shelf.
"Hey." I leaned closer, brushing my lips against her temple. "It’s okay. You’re okay. Call them right now, and it’ll all be fine."
She nodded, straightening up and wiping at her eyes before they could brim over. Her movements were still a little shaky as she pulled out her phone, but when she dialed the vendor's number and brought it to her ear, her voice was steady, clear, professional.
I stayed nearby, arms crossed loosely as she handled the call like the capable woman I knew her to be. Watching her take control again, a flicker of pride warmed the lingering tension in my chest. This was why we worked—this balance, this trust.
T he community center buzzed with low, expectant chatter as chairs scraped against the linoleum floor. Rebekah stood at the front of the room, her cheeks flushed with excitement. In one hand, she held a stack of colorful flyers, the edges curling slightly where her grip tightened. The other gestured animatedly, punctuating her words as she addressed the group of volunteers.
"Okay, so picture this," she said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. "The main booth will have these gorgeous balloon arches—" she paused to flick open one of the flyers, holding it up for all to see “—and we'll have a photo station right there. Perfect for selfies! And don't worry, I’ve already lined up someone to donate the glitter . . . even if it means my living room is basically a disco ball right now, what with the all the testing I’m doing."
A ripple of laughter spread through the group, and I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. She had them. Hook, line, and sinker.
Her gaze darted toward me, searching, and when our eyes met, I gave her a subtle nod. That was all she needed; her shoulders straightened, her confidence blooming under the reassurance. She continued, thanking sponsors by name and outlining new ideas for interactive displays. Every word out of her mouth carried that infectious energy only Rebekah seemed capable of conjuring.
"Now, I know what you're thinking," she teased, glancing around the room. "Who's going to clean up the glitter explosion? Answer: not me!" Another wave of chuckles followed, and she grinned, her dimples deepening in triumph.
When she finally stepped aside, I rose from my chair, clicking the pen I'd been using to jot notes against the clipboard in my hand. Her energy lingered in the air, like an electric pulse that hummed softly even after she'd finished speaking.
"Alright," I began, my tone calm and measured—a stark contrast to her buoyancy. "Let’s go over the vendor lists and finalize donation drop-offs." I flipped to the spreadsheet I’d prepared earlier. "We’ve confirmed most of the shifts, but we’ll need two additional volunteers for set-up on Friday morning. Any takers?"
Hands shot up around the room, and I made quick notes, my pen scratching across the paper efficiently. Rebekah leaned back against the wall near the front, her arms crossed loosely, watching me with a soft smile as I ran through the remaining logistics. It struck me again how seamlessly we balanced each other—her vibrancy feeding off my structure, my calm steadying her exuberance.
"Perfect," I concluded, glancing at her again. "Rebekah will send out the finalized schedule by tomorrow afternoon."
"With lots of emojis," she quipped, earning another laugh from the group. I shook my head fondly but didn’t bother hiding my smile this time.
As the meeting wrapped up and people filtered out, I noticed her lingering near the folding table piled high with leftover flyers. She was fiddling with the corner of one, her fingers smoothing the curled edges absently. When I approached, she glanced up, her eyes bright despite the long day.
"Not bad for a rookie event planner, huh?" she said, biting her lip like she was half-joking, half-fishing for validation.
"Not bad at all," I replied, letting my hand brush lightly against hers as I reached for a stray paperclip. "You had them eating out of your hand."
"Well, someone has to balance out your spreadsheets," she teased, leaning into me just enough that I could feel the warmth of her shoulder against mine. "It’s a good thing you’re cute when you talk budgets."
"Good thing you’re cute when you do anything," I countered, my voice low enough that only she could hear. Her cheeks flushed deeper, and she ducked her head, pretending to organize the flyers.
"Come on," I added, nudging her gently. "Let’s finish up."
T he next couple nights, Rebekah stayed at her place. I had a bunch of work to do, including some very dry tasks I’d agreed to do as a favor to a friend from my old firm in the city.
It was dull, and reminded me of exactly why I’d left. Still it needed to be done, so when Rebekah burst through my apartment door, her arms overflowing with poster boards, rolls of ribbon, and what looked like an entire container of glitter threatening to spill, I was a little concerned. A stray foam letter fluttered to the ground behind her as she kicked the door shut with her foot.
"Tell me you have floor space," she announced, barely glancing up as she maneuvered around my coffee table. "Because I’m about to take over."
"Good evening to you, too," I said dryly, setting down my red pen and closing the legal brief I'd been reviewing. “I—uh—I’m kinda busy.”
"Sorry, hi!" She flashed me a quick grin before dropping everything in a colorful heap on the rug. "I’ll try to not be disruptive. But seriously, this is the only place big enough to spread out." She plopped to her knees, already rifling through the mess she'd brought as though she had no time to waste. Her energy was electric, chaotic, and absolutely contagious.
Well. Maybe the city work could wait.
"Of course," I murmured, sliding off my chair to join her without hesitation. I reached for the foam letters, lining them up neatly while she began unrolling ribbons. “You do realize you’ve just declared war on my vacuum cleaner.”
"Your vacuum is tough. It’ll survive," she quipped, tongue caught between her teeth as she fiddled with a glue gun. The spark in her eyes was enough to make me forget the pile of work I’d left behind on my desk.
"What did you have for dinner?”
She grimaced. “Dinner, umm . . .”
“Missed dinner again, didn’t you?" I asked, leaning forward to smooth a stray curl from her forehead. She froze mid-motion, blinking at me like a deer caught in headlights.
"Uh..." Her eyes darted to the clock on my wall, widening when she saw it was past nine. "I—" She bit her lip, guilt flickering across her face.
"Thought so." I gave her a pointed look but kept my tone light. That flicker of anxiety—the one where she worried she’d let something important slip—was there as expected, but not as sharp as it used to be. She was learning to trust that I wouldn’t let her spiral.
"Sorry," she mumbled, looking sheepish.
I didn’t want to be too hard on her. She’d been working like a trooper.
"Don’t apologize. You do what you need to do. I’ll order something." I pulled my phone from my pocket, scrolling through the takeout options as she let out a soft sigh of relief.
"You're the best," she murmured, focusing back on her crafting. Her fingers moved deftly, tying bows and adjusting foam pieces like she was conducting some kind of whimsical orchestra. The living room was quickly descending into chaos, but she thrived in it, glowing in a way that made it impossible not to be drawn in.
"Chinese okay?" I asked, glancing up.
"Perfect," she chirped without looking up, her voice laced with gratitude.
By the time the food arrived, we’d somehow managed to assemble two complete signs and were halfway through a third. All thoughts of doing my own work were long forgotten. Rebekah sat cross-legged on the floor, happily munching on a spring roll while balancing a tube of glitter precariously on her knee. I leaned back against the couch, my legs stretched out beside hers.
"Careful with that glitter," I warned, giving her a mock-stern look when she nearly tipped it.
"Relax, Mr. Lawyer. I’ve got it under control," she teased, though the grin she shot me was anything but innocent.
"That’s debatable," I replied, reaching out to steady the tube before it could topple. She laughed, the sound warm and carefree, and I couldn’t help but smile.
"Fine, fine. You win," she conceded, setting the glitter aside. But then her smile turned sheepish again, and she glanced at the half-finished sign in front of us. "I’m behind on these, aren’t I?"
"Just a little," I admitted, keeping my tone gentle. When her grin faltered slightly, I reached out and tapped her lightly on the thigh—a playful reminder more than anything else.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, laughing as she swatted at my hand. "Okay, okay, I get it! No slacking!"
"Good girl," I said softly, and the blush that crept up her cheeks told me she heard the subtle weight behind the words.
We finished eating with our legs tangled together on the couch, surrounded by the remnants of her crafting frenzy. For all the chaos she brought into my life, moments like this made it feel like exactly the kind of chaos I needed.
L ater that week, though, the chaos wasn’t charming—it was overwhelming. Rebekah dragged herself into my apartment after what must have been an exhausting day at the shop. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of several bags filled with supplies, and the moment the door clicked shut behind her, she dropped everything in a heap and leaned against the wall with a groan.
"Rough day?" I asked, standing from where I’d been sorting through emails at the dining table.
"Understatement," she muttered, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. "I don’t even know where today went. One second it was morning, and the next thing I knew, I was five steps behind on everything." There was frustration in her voice, but mostly exhaustion. My chest tightened at the sight of her looking so worn down.”Pauline was so angry.”
"Come here," I said gently, crossing the room to take her hand. She blinked up at me, her expression uncertain, but allowed me to guide her to the couch. I pressed her down onto the cushions, then crouched in front of her, taking both her hands in mine. "Breathe," I instructed quietly.
She exhaled shakily, her shoulders relaxing fractionally. "It’s just . . . there’s so much to do, and I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something. What if—"
"Stop," I interrupted, squeezing her hands just enough to ground her. "You’re doing more than enough, Bekah. But you can’t do it all alone. I’m here, remember?"
Her lips trembled, and she nodded quickly, watery eyes meeting mine. "I know, I just . . . I hate feeling disorganized," she admitted, her voice cracking slightly.
"Then let me help you," I said firmly, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. "That’s why we’re a team, right?"
"Right," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Good," I said softly, releasing her hands to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Now, no more apologizing. Just sit here and unwind for a minute. Everything else can wait."
"Okay," she murmured, sinking further into the couch cushions.
Rebekah shifted against me, her fingers brushing my shirt as if testing its texture. Her voice was soft, tentative when she spoke. “Do you think we need more glitter for the welcome booth? Or maybe streamers instead?”
I looked down at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “We already have enough glitter to blind half the town,” I replied gently, running my hand in slow circles on her back. “Streamers are fine.”
Her brow furrowed like she wasn’t quite convinced, and then her lips parted again, another thought bubbling up. “What about the balloon arch? Do you think it should be rainbow or—" She paused mid-sentence, her words caught between a yawn.
“Bekah,” I interrupted softly, smoothing my thumb along the curve of her arm. “You don’t have to solve everything tonight.”
She blinked up at me, her eyes glassy with exhaustion but tinged with that unmistakable trust I’d come to cherish. “But Daddy...” The word slipped out so naturally, so unguarded, that it filled the room, humming quietly between us. My chest tightened—not with pressure, but with an overwhelming sense of peace.
“Shh.” I pressed a kiss to her temple, letting my lips linger there for a moment longer than necessary. “Everything’s okay. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”
There was a softness in her exhale, a weight leaving her shoulders as she nestled deeper into my lap. Her head rested against my chest, her fingers curling loosely around my shirt. I could feel her body growing heavier, her breathing slowing into a steady rhythm. She was drifting, teetering on the edge of sleep, and I didn’t have the heart to pull her back from it.
The clock on the wall ticked faintly, a quiet metronome marking the stretch of time. My back started to protest against the couch, a dull ache creeping along my spine, but I ignored it. Adjusting even slightly might wake her, and I wasn’t willing to risk shattering her rare moment of complete calm. I let my own breathing match hers, grounding myself in the shared stillness.
"Come on, sweetheart," I said quietly, my voice low enough not to startle her. "Let’s get you to bed."
She yawned, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand like a child fighting against sleep. But she didn’t argue when I reached for her hand, guiding her to her feet. Her steps were slow, shuffled, as though her body hadn’t quite caught up to the idea of moving yet. I glanced back at the living room—a battlefield of ribbon scraps, half-done posters, and glitter that seemed to cling to every surface—and decided it could wait until morning.
"Tomorrow," I promised her softly as we passed the couch. "We’ll deal with all of it tomorrow."
She nodded, too tired to respond, and followed me into the bedroom. As soon as we were inside, she let go of my hand and tugged off her sweater, trading it for an oversized T-shirt she grabbed from the dresser. The hem brushed mid-thigh, and she flopped onto the bed before even bothering to pull back the covers. I chuckled under my breath, shaking my head as I stepped forward to arrange the pillows and untangle the blanket from where it had bunched near the foot of the bed.
"Here," I said, coaxing her to shift so I could tuck her in properly. She rolled onto her side, facing me, her cheek pressed into the pillow. Her eyes were already half-closed, but she managed a small, drowsy smile.
"Thank you," she mumbled, her words barely audible.
"Always," I replied softly, knowing she might not even hear me in her near-sleep state.
Once she was settled, I moved around the room, dimming the light and double-checking the lock on the window out of habit. The stillness of the space wrapped around me as I eased into bed beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. She instinctively shifted closer, her hand brushing against my arm as if seeking reassurance even in her sleep.
Lying there, I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, my mind drifting. The fundraiser had consumed so many of our waking hours lately—squeezing its way into every corner of our lives.
Rebekah needed a break. And I knew exactly the thing.