11. Sloane #2
"All clean?" I ask when Lennon returns, his arms still damp.
He nods, climbing onto the barstool. I slide the book in front of him, flipping pages until I find the one he was already working on.
"Why don't you finish coloring your page while I finish up? Or, if you like, you can find a new one."
Lennon selects a blue crayon without comment, his small fingers gripping it tightly. I turn to the refrigerator, pulling out containers of hummus, pre-cut vegetables, cheese, and crackers.
The quiet rhythm of his coloring fills the kitchen, punctuated only by the sound of distant waves and the soft scrape of my knife against the cutting board.
The front door opens with a click.
My spine stiffens, and my heart beats through my chest. Damn it, I thought he'd left. I’m not ready for this. Not him, not now.
His footsteps echo across the foyer, growing louder until he fills the doorway. My back remains turned, but I feel his presence. How is that even possible? It's like a shift in barometric pressure.
"Hey, Len." His voice is awkward, too hearty. But I can tell he's trying. A pang of empathy shoots through me.
The quiet stretches, thick enough I can hear the crayon grinding harder into the page.
"What are you working on there? Can I see?"
The barstool scrapes against the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see Lennon slide the book slightly away.
More silence, but Pope is now sitting beside him at the bar.
I turn, plate in hand, stepping into the gap their silence creates. "Show him your octopus you colored yesterday. I love how you mixed the blues and greens with the reds and orange."
Pope's eyes snap to mine.
Oh.
My stomach drops, a rollercoaster plunge that sends goosebumps crawling up my neck. For a dangerous second, I'm back in his penthouse, skin to skin, his hands tangled in my hair, sliding down my waist.
The memory clashes with the present moment: this kitchen, this child, this impossible situation.
I blink hard, forcing air into my lungs.
Heat rushes down my spine, pooling low. My throat goes dry, and I grip the edge of the counter like it might steady me.
Lennon flips the page to the picture, but still doesn't say a word. I call that progress.
"Lunch is ready." I set the colorful plate in front of him.
Lennon picks up a cracker, nibbling its edge without looking up.
I wipe my suddenly damp palms against my thighs and turn back to Pope. His expression is neutral, but his shoulders are rigid beneath his perfectly fitted and pressed dress shirt. His navy and royal blue striped tie makes his dark eyes sparkle.
“Can I make you something to eat?” This is so odd. We are strangers but we aren’t. This is his house, not mine, but I feel rude not offering him lunch.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Do you have a moment? There's something I want to talk to you about."
Pope stands, putting his hands in his pants pockets, his expression guarded. "What is it?"
I kneel beside Lennon's stool, my face level with his. "Hey buddy, I need to talk about some grown-up stuff for a minute. Can you finish your lunch while we step into the living room? We'll be right there where you can see us."
Lennon's eyes flick to mine before returning to his plate. He gives a barely perceptible nod.
I set the wooden timer cube on the counter, turning the face to fifteen minutes. "When this dings, we'll be done, okay? But if you need me before then, just come get me."
He gives me a single nod and then swipes a baby carrot in the hummus and then into his mouth. I take that as permission to step away.
Wiping my damp palms on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, I straighten and tilt my head toward the adjacent room. Pope follows, his footsteps heavy behind me.
The kitchen opens into the living room, marble shifting to immaculate hardwood. We’re close enough for Lennon to see us, far enough that lowered voices will keep him from catching every word.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts. “I found a program for Lennon I wanted to talk to you about.”
Pope’s gaze sharpens. “What kind of program?”
“A few hours in the afternoons. It would be a change of scenery, space for him to be outside, to connect with nature, to work through things.” I don’t say grief aloud, though it hangs between us.
His jaw ticks. “I’m not sure I understand why you took it upon yourself. We have this covered.”
We?
My chin lifts. “I did something similar during grad school. It made me wonder if there was an option here, too. This isn’t busy work. It would give him something constructive, and it fills that four-hour gap in a way that could actually help him.”
“The agency secured someone today,” he says, voice clipped. “Four hours weekday afternoons, plus Saturday and Sunday. You’ll handle mornings until lunch, evenings, and nights. As we discussed.”
My jaw tightens. I step in, careful but firm. “With all due respect, this is the better option. It’s called Seabreeze Nature Enrichment. I think you should take a look at it before you decide.”
He watches me, arms folded across his chest, shoulders broad and rigid. “Email it to me. I’ll run it by Camila.”
The name hits like cold water. Camila. Not him. Someone else is steering everything.
I keep my voice level. “To be clear, this isn’t school. No classrooms, no worksheets. It’s tide pools and marsh walks. Learning to care for things that are alive. He'll practice belonging, without pressure.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. My skin heats beneath it, memories of that night flashing unbidden.
I swallow. “My suggestion, if you're open to it, is to give it a try. A week, a day. Just see how he responds.”
He studies me as if he’s weighing the risk of even entertaining this. Then, without a word, he turns back toward the kitchen.
The rejection hits sharper than if he’d said no.