Chapter 9
Nine
Finn
Chloe’s been off since I picked her up from school.
And now she’s being uncharacteristically stubborn—or okay, not uncharacteristically stubborn. She’s four, after all, and she definitely has her own mind.
She’s just…not acting like the Chloe I know.
Normally, the car ride home from school is full of chatter about her school day—who built what, what snack they ate, who didn’t listen to Ms. Mika and got in trouble, what Jake said or did.
Today…there’s nothing but quiet.
And every conversational gambit I toss gets launched back with one-syllable answers—
Or dropped all together.
So, I debate as I drive, trying to decide if I should let the quiet settle, or if I should keep trying to break it.
I flick my gaze to the rearview, see that Chloe’s staring out the window, watching the world go by.
And decide to try again.
“Should we bake cookies when we get home, sweetheart?”
Her little nose wrinkles. “No.”
“That’s fair. We have a lot of cookies.” My middle of the night baking extravaganza filled the cookie jar…and a plethora of zip top bags. I’d even sent a couple with Rhodes for the team to eat on their road trip.
“How about we go for a walk to the park?”
She sighs. “No.”
“We could color. I picked up some new crayon—”
“No.”
“Right.” I nibble at my bottom lip. “How about craft time? We could work on your blanket.” It’s turning out adorably. Chloe has excellent fabric sense and it’s almost time for us to pick out the final squares.
A silent shake of her head.
“I bought some new feather toys for the kitties. I bet they’d like you to play with them.”
She shrugs.
And…damn.
Not even Pear and Olive are enough to snap her out of her funk.
I decide to leave it for a bit. She’s probably tired after a hard day of building towers and making friends and learning how to write the letter K.
Or maybe it’s deeper than that.
Either way, now’s not the time to push.
However, by the time I’m unbuckling her from her car seat, her eyes are shiny with tears, and I’m rethinking my strategy.
“Do you want a snack, honey?” I ask as we walk into the kitchen.
“No,” she whispers.
I exhale silently, suddenly feeling like I’m in way over my head and very unsure where to go from here. But when she disappears into the playroom and just sits on the couch, staring at her feet, I know I have to do something.
I slip into her room, grab her blanket in progress, then snag the supplies from my room.
She eyes me suspiciously when I carry everything in and spread it out on the coffee table, but I don’t push her to join me. I just get to work.
And sure enough, she eventually slides off the couch to sit beside me.
“What do you think?” I ask, setting out a couple of squares. “This one or this one?”
She picks a pink-patterned piece of fabric and I secure it in place. Then do the same with her next selections.
“Daddy left again,” she whispers.
My fingers spasm on the fabric.
Then I force myself to gentle my hold and keep sewing. “Your Daddy is just on a road trip,” I say carefully. “He’ll be back late tonight, remember?”
“But he always leaves,” she says, her voice wet with tears. “And what if he leaves like my mommy left?”
Damn, she’s breaking my heart.
I drop the fabric onto the table then tug her into my lap, hugging her tightly as I try to sort out what to say. In the end, I just go with my gut. “You know what my favorite part of making blankets like this is?”
She sniffs, but at least she’s not pulling away. “What?”
“That even though all the pieces are different—they’re different colors, you see? And different types of fabric? And different sizes too—?”
A nod.
“So even though someone might not think they make sense together, they do. Every piece is important.” I touch one corner then the opposite on the far side. “And even when the pieces are very far apart, they all still come together to make something beautiful. See?”
This may be way too high-concept for a four-year-old.
But I’m doing the best with what I’ve got.
And, thankfully, she nods.
“I think family’s like that sometimes too.” I smooth back her hair, cuddle her closer. “That even when we’re far apart we’re still connected.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she slips out of my hold and traces the lines of the fabric on the table.
“I think,” she eventually says, touching a bright pink square that’s patterned with grumpy cat faces, “this will be Daddy.” She touches a glittery piece in the middle. “And this will be me.”
Relief ripples through me so rapidly, I feel a little dizzy.
Or maybe it’s a bit more than relief.
Maybe it’s that I’m falling in love with this smart, sweet, brave little girl.
I smile at her and absently rub my temple.
Or maybe it’s something else too.
Because my head is throbbing and I feel a little hot and achy.
“I think those are the perfect choices,” I say, setting her back beside me.
“Finn?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Is your family connected too? Even though you’re far apart?”
My throat goes tight and I blink back tears as I lie to her for the first time ever. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re like that too.”
If connection is hurt and judgment and a lack of understanding.
Shoving those thoughts away, I focus back on the blanket. “What else should we add?”
Thankfully, she’s quickly distracted by fabric selection and we work for a little while longer. She’s still not as bubbly as normal, but she does tell me about her day.
I hear about snack time and Jake’s obsession with the balance bikes and how they learned a new song called Tooty Ta. I do my best to listen and respond as I normally would, but the throb in my temple is growing by the second, and my skin is getting clammy, and…
Damn.
I really don’t feel good.
It’s when I’m packing away the blanket supplies to get started on dinner when she asks, “Finn?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“You look funny.”
I laugh weakly, my throat beginning to hurt, my arms feeling shaky. “I think I may need to go to bed early tonight.”
“Okay,” she whispers, her expression full of concern. “You don’t feel good?”
“No,” I admit.
Thankfully, her sweet soul comes through and she doesn’t complain about soup and apples and peanut butter (and chocolate chips) for dinner, nor about skipping her bath in lieu of an early bedtime.
I take some medicine as she puts on her pajamas, but it’s taking everything in me to not curl up into a ball and start crying, I feel that awful.
“How about we watch your daddy’s game in my room?” I rasp.
Her eyes are wide, but she takes my hand and we walk down the hall. “’Kay,” she murmurs, crawling in beside me.
I turn on the game.
We cheer—well, she cheers and I applaud quietly—as the Eagles come onto the ice.
I plug in my phone.
“There’s Daddy’s secret signal!” she cries and I peel open my lids to see Rhodes rubbing his right ear. “See? He’s thinking about me.”
“Of course he is.” I smile, glad Rhodes was able to pull it off.
We watch the puck drop, the Eagles skate and shoot and pass.
And the last thing I remember is Chloe cuddling into my side as she drifts off.
Only then do I let the blackness take over.