Chapter 12 #3
Janet dives in without mercy, asking immediately about my work schedule.
I explain the flexibility I’ve built-in—remote days, a VP who can run operations, the ability to restructure my calendar, pull back on travel, and ensure I’m around for a child’s needs, especially in their infancy.
She asks about support systems. I list Rina, my parents—which is a stretch, I admit, the attorney.
It sounds weak. My backup babysitter is my lawyer?
Yikes. But what am I supposed to say? Don’t worry, I can afford a legion of nannies? That doesn’t sound very warm.
And then Janet looks at Saylor, and at me, and at the sliver of space between us on the sofa.
“I have to say,” Janet begins, pen hovering over her portfolio.
“And I want to be transparent—my role is to observe and report, not to advise. But I will share that in cases where the court is deciding between two single guardians with similar financial profiles, the presence of a stable partnership can be significant.” She pauses, choosing her words with the care of someone who knows they’ll be remembered.
“A two-parent household isn’t a requirement.
But it is definitely noted that you two are together. ”
I’m sorry…did she just say ‘together’?
Are we not giving off lady-of-the-house and hired-contractor vibes? Is it because Saylor has been giving me puppy-dog eyes since I arrived and I keep having hallucinations about him doing very sexy things to me in the back of that pickup in the driveway?
Her sentiment is rolling around the three of us like a grenade with the pin still in. Saylor’s posture shifts beside me—not a flinch, not a stiffening, but something more alert. Like a frequency change. Like he heard the same thing I did: if you’re together, you have an edge over Eleanor.
I should correct her. I should say: we’re not together.
He’s a contractor I hired. He’s someone I’ve known for three weeks who happens to be extraordinarily kind and confusingly dedicated and sitting too close to me on a sofa in a nursery-green house that he painted with his own hands.
I should say all of this because I am an honest person and because lying to a court evaluator is probably illegal and definitely inadvisable.
But I don’t. Because I look at the framed photo on the mantel—the one of me laughing at the shore—and I think about the nursery with the baby board books on the shelf and the words on the wall, and I think about Whitney standing on a sidewalk in an emerald dress asking me to be brave, and the truth is I am brave enough to accept the gift of advantage Saylor is giving me.
I’m brave enough to fight dirty when it comes to Eleanor.
So I say nothing. And my silence draws a line that I can’t uncross.
“It’s clear you two have a strong dynamic,” Janet continues, glancing between us.
“But I’ll note that in my experience, the court does take into account the perceived stability of the relationship.
” Her eyes move to Saylor, then to me. “The age difference, for instance—and forgive my frankness—can sometimes read as, well, transitional. Especially to a judge who’s evaluating long-term suitability. ”
Transitional. The word hits me like a slap.
Not because it’s offensive—it’s clinical, it’s measured, it’s the word I’ve been using in my own head.
Detour. Temporary. A hot and heavy romance that isn’t a destination.
Janet just said out loud the thing I’ve been telling myself since Saylor walked into my office with a Rolex case and a collared shirt, and hearing it from someone else’s mouth exposes what it really is: a defense mechanism dressed up as wisdom.
“If transitional means fooling around…that is not us. We’re um, definitely end game. Yeah.” Saylor gives me a lunatic smile while pumping his eyebrows. “In it to win it.” His hand lands on my knee.
I feel the contact the way you feel a change in altitude—pressure, warmth, the immediate recalibration of every nerve in your body.
His palm is broad and takes up the entire span of my knee.
Beautiful, strong, callused working hands.
Hands that could never belong to Greg because the only thing he knows how to work is a phone, calling somebody else to do the job he can’t.
“So you obviously plan to be a big part of the baby’s life.”
He glances at me, seemingly asking for permission. I give him a quick nod. Saylor lies under pressure much better than I do. Let’s call that an orange flag, not red. At least he’s lying for me?
“Absolutely. Celeste and I are already arguing over baby names. I like Reed Bailey—gender-neutral, a little distinct. Celeste of course will want to name our baby something more regal and French—Sandrine, Fleur, Vivienne…the vetoes go on and on.”
“What’s wrong with Vivienne?” The question breaks free like word vomit. Me, getting defensive over names I didn’t come up with, momentarily forgetting we’re not actually naming this child together.
“Well, you get it,” Saylor says. “Typical lovers’ quarrels. How do you feel about Vivienne, Janet?”
She gives an odd smile. Like she’s trying to be kind, but she smells something sour. “Vivienne is a nice name in my opinion. But that’s not my bigger concern. Just for clarity on my report, what exactly are you guys? Casual? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Planning a future?”
“Which of those options helps our case?” I ask pointedly.
“What would not help your case is fabrication,” Janet says, emphasizing her words. “But it’d be notable in my report if you two were in a committed relationship. Obviously you’re not married, but knowing this is a serious relationship is a distinction I could make.”
“Well, then, sweetie, I think for the sake of clarity, it’s time we share the news.” Saylor makes big, cartoon eyes at me. “Where’s your ring? Is it in the car? You should go put it on.”
My heart literally stops beating. I know this because I hold my breath, sit perfectly still, and I wait for the soft knock inside my chest cavity which doesn’t come. Holy shit. Am I having a heart attack right now?
“My…my…ring?” I stutter out.
Saylor sighs with ease. “Okay, this is a little embarrassing. I’m not bringing much to the table financially.
Everything we have is from this beautiful woman’s hard-earned success.
But, she insisted, if and when I ever proposed that she wanted something sentimental.
Something I bought for her with my own money, even it was a peanut glued to a piece of twine.
Not materialistic, this one. So I bought the best diamond I could afford, but when I gave it to her, it looked so dinky.
I feel bad, this woman deserves a whole damn skating rink, you know?
So I asked her to keep it to herself until I can afford something worthy of her pretty fingers. ”
Why is this man such an elaborate storyteller? First, the diarrhea in the Hamptons. Now, the most made-up story about a pauper trying to propose to a princess. Has Saylor never heard of a minimal response in his life?
“I’m not embarrassed,” I add. “I love my ring. It’s just that we haven’t told anybody we’re engaged except for you, Janet,” I say through gritted teeth.
“The point is…you two are engaged?” Janet asks, her pen frozen in air, waiting for its next commandment.
Saylor turns to me, and I see it in his eyes—the flicker of oh God, what have I just done immediately overridden by something brighter and more reckless.
Conviction. The same look he had when he showed up at my office uninvited.
The same look he had in the Riptide booth when he told me I wasn’t alone.
“Yup,” he says with his full chest. “We are getting married. Wow, it feels so good to say that out loud. We’ve been keeping this secret for so long. In fact…” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulls me into him, and kisses me.
It is not a careful kiss. It is not a staged kiss or a strategic kiss or the kind of kiss two people plan in advance to sell a lie.
It is the kiss of a man who has been thinking about this for three weeks and has finally been given—or has created—an excuse to do it.
His mouth is warm and firm and he kisses me like he knows exactly what he’s doing, which is infuriating because I cannot say the same.
I am being kissed on a burgundy sofa in my parents’ living room by a twenty-six-year-old Australian contractor-slash-escort in front of a court-appointed family services evaluator, and my brain has left the building.
My body stays.
For two seconds—maybe three, maybe a century, time has become unreliable—I kiss him back.
Not because of Janet. Not because of the custody case.
Because his mouth is on mine and something inside me that has been clenched for years, possibly decades, releases.
A fist opening. A seam letting go. The specific surrender of a woman who has been holding herself together so tightly that she forgot what it felt like to be held by someone else.
Then I pull back. Compose my face. Smooth my blouse. Become Celeste Brinley, CEO, again—or some approximation of her that can function while her lips are still tingling and her knee is still warm where his hand was.
“Engaged,” Janet repeats. She smiles the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her.
“Congratulations.” She writes something in her portfolio.
Something long. Something that I desperately want to read and absolutely cannot ask to see.
“That’s wonderful news. I’ll make sure to include that in my report. ”
“We’re continuing to keep it quiet for now,” Saylor says smoothly.
“With everything going on—Whitney’s passing, the custody proceedings, Celeste’s company, the renovation—it’s just so much at once.
Our engagement means everything to us. We want to give the news time to breathe until we’re all really ready to celebrate. ”