Chapter 11 – Aston
ASTON
“How are things at the hospital with your new position there?” Dr. Tudor, Zoey’s new therapist, asks in the serious yet soft way she has when she asks questions.
She wanted a one-on-one with me after her second meeting with Zoey yesterday, though we’ve talked on the phone several times already.
I lean forward, my elbows dig into my thighs, and my hands rub together. I hate answering personal questions.
“It’s good. Challenging. The cases are tough, and I like the overall flow and system they have going.” My hands rub a little harder. “I work with Skylar Davenport, who is Micha’s younger sister.”
“The woman temporarily living in your new home?”
I nod, my gaze on the foot of her chair. “Yes.”
“Is she part of what’s making your new role challenging?”
I nearly laugh at that, but as it is, I don’t even allow a smile to escape. Still, I answer honestly. “Partially, yes. We… clash. I don’t know. Maybe hot and cold is a better description.”
“In what way?”
I glance up, hating how she’s scribbling down notes on me. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck as I think back to when social services came and interviewed me about what kind of parent I was with Zoey. What kind of person I was. And if I were fit to care for my child.
“We just butt heads and don’t get along well.”
“How is she with Zoey?”
“Great, actually. Zoey seems to like her, and the feeling is mutual with Skylar. Skylar is young and full of energy, which Zoey responds to.”
“But you’re still determined to have her move out? Even if she’s already bonding with Zoey?”
I inwardly sigh. “I think that’s best. Like I said, Skylar is young, and other than being Micha’s sister, she’s not a permanent fixture in Zoey’s life. Living with her is a complication.”
She uncrosses and recrosses her legs as she straightens her spine, and here it comes.
“I’m going to level with you, Aston. The next few months to the next couple of years are crucial in Zoey’s life.
She’s been through enormous trauma and has a severe fear of abandonment along with an anxious-preoccupied attachment disorder, meaning she craves intimacy and latches on fast, afraid to let go and lose someone. ”
“You picked all of this up from two forty-five-minute sessions with her?”
“Yes,” she says simply, almost pityingly.
I wince and cover my face with my hands. “I know,” is all I can manage because I do. I’ve seen it. She’s had a horrible year, and it’s shaped her in ways that keep me up at night as I try to think about how I can fix this for her.
“She needs stability in her life,” she continues. “That includes the people in it. People she can rely on. More than just you.”
“I’m trying to give her that. It’s why we moved back here.
She has my parents and even my brother.” Alden picked her up from school yesterday and spent all afternoon with her.
He took her to the aquarium and bought her ice cream and a new stuffed penguin she’s been sleeping with.
Hearing her squeal about it all last night reminded me why moving back to Boston was the right choice for her.
“And that’s fantastic. But right now, she needs consistency. Not the uncertainty of fluctuation.” She lets that sit for a moment. “Let’s plan to have another talk next month after I’ve had some more sessions with Zoey, and we can see how things are going.”
“Sure.”
Numbly, I get to my feet and make my way home, my head spinning.
Before long, I’m parking and dragging myself up Micha’s front steps, my shoulders hunched and my brain heavy.
Today was a particular motherfucker. Seven back-to-back trauma cases, two emergency surgeries, and a mountain of administrative paperwork have left me hollowed out, and then this chat with Dr. Tudor.
It's only been a couple of weeks here, and I already can’t help but feel like I’m failing Zoey.
That no matter what choice I make or how I do it, I’m doing it wrong.
All I want is to collapse on the couch with Zoey tucked against my side, maybe order pizza, and watch one of her cartoon movies until we both drift off to sleep.
Simple comfort to counterbalance the chaos.
But when I push open the front door, the scene that greets me isn’t what I expected at all.
My parents were supposed to pick Zoey up and bring her home while I met with Dr. Tudor. So what in the East Jesus am I looking at now?
The kitchen table is covered in construction paper, markers, glitter—God help us, it’s pink and extra sparkly—and what appears to be dozens of cut-out paper dolls.
Zoey sits cross-legged on one of the chairs, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration as she carefully applies glue to a paper figure.
Beside her, propped up on her knees but somehow making the position look graceful, is Skylar.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, blonde strands escaping to frame her face.
There’s a smudge of glitter on her cheek beneath her left eye that makes her look like a bedazzled football player.
“And this one can be Mommy,” Zoey explains, holding up a paper doll with wild curls drawn in black marker. “She’s watching from heaven, so she needs extra sparkles.”
“That makes perfect sense,” Skylar replies, her voice gentle in a way I’ve never heard directed at me while she cuts her paper people. “People who love us are like stars. We can’t always see them, sometimes they’re even hidden from us, but they’re always there watching over us.”
“Do you think that’s what Mommy is doing?”
Skylar glances up, and the smile she gives my daughter makes my chest clench. “Absolutely. You make your mommy smile every day.”
“Do you think she hears me when I talk to her?”
“Without a doubt, she does. Your mom is always with you. That’s what makes mommies so special.”
“Daddy!” Zoey spots me and scrambles off her chair before launching herself at my legs. I drop my bag and scoop her up, breathing in the scent of strawberry shampoo and glue.
“Hey, Zo-Zo. What’s all this? Where’s Grandma and Grandpa?”
“I told them I had her,” Skylar supplies. “I was already home, and there was no sense in them staying while I was here.”
“Me and Skylar are making paper people! Look!” She wiggles to be put down and drags me by the hand to their art project. “This is you, and this is me, and this is Mr. Penguin, and this is Mommy in heaven, and this is Uncle Micha in Africa, and this is Uncle Alden, and this one is Skylar!”
I study the paper figures. Mine is tall with a stethoscope made from a silver pipe cleaner.
Zoey’s has wild curls like her mother’s, only hers are in yellow marker, and what appears to be a cape is on her back.
Skylar looks like a blonde princess covered in pink glitter, and Micha and Alden look indiscriminate. “Wow. Look at all of us.”
Skylar rises from the chair, brushing glitter from her jeans. “Isn’t it amazing? She did such a great job.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I love it.”
“I want to put them on the wall in my room.”
“Sure,” I tell her. “We can tape them up after dinner.”
“Let’s clean this up so we can get ready to eat then,” Skylar suggests.
“Okay,” Zoey singsongs.
Skylar bobs her head to the side, and I follow.
“She told me she wanted to draw a picture of her mom. That she used to draw a lot with her and had pictures all over her walls. I remember one of the art therapy workers making paper people with the kids on the floor a few months back, and I thought this might be a fun way to do that. She showed me which box had all of her art stuff in it. I hope that’s okay. She seemed excited to do this.”
Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest. For seven months, it’s been me trying to navigate Zoey’s grief alongside my own.
Much the way it did with the fairy lights last week.
Having someone else in this space, someone who seems to instinctively understand what my daughter needs, is both a relief and a complication.
“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate but sincere. “It was really kind of you to take the time to do that with her.”
She waves me off as if it was nothing when it’s actually everything, then gestures toward the kitchen. “There’s lasagna in the oven. It’s my aunt Elle’s recipe, which means it’s amazing. Zoey told me she likes lasagna.”
I squint at her accusingly so I don’t kiss her. “Are you trying to be nice to me?”
She laughs and tosses her hands up. “Not really, no. But I like your kid.”
“Not me,” I state, not as a question.
“Definitely not you. I’m a nurse for a reason. We think doctors are shmucks.”
I choke. “Shmucks?”
“It’s Yiddish. Dr. Schwartz taught me it. He’s my favorite intensivist.”
“Are you sleeping with him too?”
I get a glare mixed with an eyebrow raise. “Too?”
“Josh.”
She visibly stiffens as if she doesn’t want to talk about him. “No. Dr. Schwartz is older than my father, so ew. And Josh… no.”
There’s a lot there I want to question but don’t feel deserving of the answers to.
Especially after all she’s done for Zoey tonight, who’s making an obscene mess of trying to clean up but is trying all the same simply because Skylar asked her to.
We’ve been living together for over a week, but I haven’t seen her much.
We dodged each other effectively, and either she or Zoey and I were out much of the weekend, and this week was busy for all of us.
“You’re very interested in my sex life, Doctor. Is that to report back to Micha or for your own personal knowledge?”
“I just want to know who you’re going to be dragging in and out of the house while we live here together.”
“Dragging?” She laughs. “They come crawling.” She gives me a wink.
“Ah, but they don’t make you come when they do.”
She huffs. “What is it with you and my friends being so obsessed with a man getting me off? They’re orgasms. I can’t imagine they’re all that different from the ones I give myself.”
Heat sears through me at the thought of her getting herself off, but before I can explore that, the timer on her phone goes off. Thank god, right?
“Oh. The lasagna.” She flies over to her phone to shut off the alarm and then heads into the kitchen.
I follow her, watching as she slides on oven mitts and retrieves a bubbling dish that fills the air with the scent of tomato and herbs.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“I like cooking. Stella and Aunt Elle used to teach Roman and me when we were kids. You’d never believe the concoctions he and I created over the years.”
I can’t help my grin. “Your family is...”
“The best?” she finishes for me. “For sure.”
“Is massive, is actually what I was going to say. And special.”
She beams, and what is it about her? Why am I drawn to her wide smile and mossy green eyes and adorable, short, curvy body? She’s everything I should never notice but seem to more and more.
I nod and move on, watching as she moves efficiently around the kitchen while I start setting the table, pouring milk for Zoey and hitting up Micha’s extensive wine fridge for myself and Skylar because I could use a glass—or six—of wine tonight, and I bet Skylar could too.
It’s easier when I dislike her. So much easier.
So, for now, I pour us some red wine and start sipping on it and try not to think beyond that.
But she brushes past me. It’s innocent. A nothing of a move.
Except with it comes her hair beneath my face, the soft texture tickling my chin, and her scent hits me like a bullet.
Before I know what the fuck I’m actually doing, I grab her arm, spin her around, set my glass of wine down so I can cup her face, and then I kiss her.
Thankfully, some fucking intelligence and rational thought hit me at the last second, and instead of her mouth, I move to her cheek right at the corner of her lips.
She startles against me, but I hold her steady, not increasing the kiss or even moving, but breathing and fucking smelling and just feeling her.
It’s been two years since I’ve felt this, and it’s as perfect as it was that night.
Only tonight I’m not drunk, and I have no excuse for what I’m doing, so I pull back and pick up my wine and create some distance.
She stares up at me, a million questions in her eyes. “For Zoey,” I manage even though my tongue feels impossibly thick in my mouth. “For the fairy lights and the drawing and making dinner and just giving her some peace and normality.” I swallow. “I just… thank you.”
She gives me a small, uncertain nod, but thankfully, my impulsivity dies there. “It’s hot. We’re ready.” Her voice is low. Quiet. She throws me an eye. “The salad is in the fridge. Can you grab it?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” Fuck! Why the fuck did I fucking kiss her?
We settle at the table, Zoey chattering about preschool and her new friend Maci, who has two moms and a turtle named Bob. Skylar asks about pets and favorite weekend activities and if she likes museums, because there’s a museum of ice cream in Boston and she’s anxious to go.
I listen. I nod and smile and eat.
But there’s no escaping it. Skylar is spending time with my child. I’m spending time with Skylar. We’re spending time together, the three of us. This is exactly what I need to avoid. Complication. Attachment. Vulnerability when I need to be strong for Zoey.
Skylar isn’t going to be permanent. Which means she needs to go. And not just from this house. But from all the other places she’s starting to creep into.