11. Conrad #2
Winnie rolled her eyes, which was so utterly out of character that it delighted me, but she retreated into the family room while the rest of us tackled cleanup.
Well. The kids tackled cleanup. I mostly supervised and prevented catastrophic outcomes.
Billie attempted to wash Senator Crunch in the dishwasher despite very loud warnings from her siblings.
CJ insisted that plates should be organized by the amount of scraps left on them, which Bianca rejected, then shoved him out of the way to reorganize the dishwasher with terrifying precision.
At one point, I glanced toward the family room and caught Winnie watching us. She wasn’t laughing, or judging, or getting ready to intervene. She just sat, looking content. It was as if this scene meant more to her than dishes and children arguing over forks probably should.
Once the kitchen was set to rights to an acceptable standard, Bianca wandered toward the speaker system near the bookshelves. “Winnie, what kind of music do you like?”
Winnie looked genuinely startled by the question. “Oh. I like all kinds.”
“That’s statistically impossible,” Bianca replied.
Winnie smiled. “Would you like specifics instead?”
And somehow the evening turned into music night.
Bianca chose orchestral scores, because of course she did.
Something dramatic filled the room while she explained instrumentation with the seriousness of a university lecturer.
CJ followed with his choice of aggressively theatrical eighties synth music.
Billie selected novelty Halloween songs without hesitation or shame, which was how I ended up watching my youngest daughter perform interpretive goblin dancing to “Monster Mash” while waving Senator Crunch over her head.
“This song transcends generations,” CJ argued.
“It should have remained in one generation,” Bianca replied.
Winnie laughed openly at that one, then chose a warm, old folk song that threaded through the air.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s an old Irish song.”
Something in her tone made me pause. There were moments when Winnie sometimes became untethered from the present. Tiny slips in phrasing or expressions that it seemed like she carried more years inside herself than should fit.
I didn’t know how else to explain it.
Billie interrupted my thoughts by grabbing Winnie’s hand. “Dance!”
“Oh no.” She tried to pull her hand away.
“Yes.” Billie pulled Winnie toward the center of the living room.
“I truly don’t think anyone wishes to witness that.”
“We absolutely do,” CJ declared.
And just like that, everyone was dancing. CJ performed the robot. Bianca tried very hard not to dance before eventually giving in and swaying awkwardly. Billie, ever the wild child, was channeling a convulsing raccoon.
I laughed harder than I had in ages. Real laughter that loosened something within me I hadn’t realized stayed clenched most days.
Then Billie spun too aggressively and crashed into CJ. CJ stumbled into me. And I collided directly with Winnie.
I caught her waist instinctively. Her fingers grabbed my arm. Everything narrowed, especially my awareness of her.
She looked up at me from far too close, laughing breathlessly from almost falling. Her hair had come loose while she’d danced, dark red strands framing her face.
And her eyes?—
Gold flecks caught in the light green near her pupils under the living room light. I’d noticed them before, just never this close.
My other hand moved automatically to the small of her back to steady her.
She didn’t pull away.
Behind us, Billie screamed, “Ooh.”
I ignored my daughter.
Winnie’s breath hitched softly, and I suddenly became acutely aware that this was the closest we’d been since she’d checked my temperature while I was half-delirious with the stomach flu.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. “Sorry,” I murmured.
“You don’t need to apologize for catching me.”
“That part was intentional.” The second the words left my mouth, heat crawled up my neck.
Winnie looked startled at that. Not upset, just as aware of every touch between us as I was.
Then CJ yelled from across the room, “Dip her!”
“CJ,” Bianca hissed.
I laughed despite myself. And before I could reconsider, I dipped her.
Winnie burst out laughing, one hand gripping my shoulder while the kids erupted into screaming applause. For one ridiculous, perfect second, she looked completely carefree in my arms.
Then Billie shouted, “Now kiss.”
Reality crashed into me.
“Bedtime,” I announced hoarsely as I released my grip on Winnie. I averted my eyes, not wanting to see her reaction to Billie’s embarrassing outburst.
The children booed. Bedtime itself took forever because everyone had residual energy from sugar and near-romantic parental incidents. By the time the house finally quieted, I was emotionally flattened in the best possible way.
Winnie was in the kitchen, gathering her things. The dishwasher whirred softly behind us. I leaned against the counter, watching her for a second before speaking.
“Thank you.”
She glanced up. “For what specifically?”
“The fundraiser. The museum. Dinner.” I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly. “All of it.”
The cool, professional distance in her features completely melted away. “They’re wonderful children.”
“They’re exhausting children.”
“They can be both.”
I smiled, and silence fell over us. It wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Before Winnie, silence and loneliness went hand in hand in this house. Now it was just quiet.
“I want to make it up to you,” I said finally.
Her brows rose. “That’s unnecessary.”
“No, I mean it.” I stepped closer unconsciously. “You’ve done so much for my family already.”
“I’m employed to help.”
“I hired a nanny,” I said honestly. “What I got was… more than that.”
A vulnerable frown passed across her face before she hid it carefully. “You give me too much credit.”
“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”
The air between us shifted again. Subtle. Risky.
I continued before I lost my nerve entirely. “Let me take you to dinner or something. Somewhere nice. Something that doesn’t involve PTA politics or children threatening bodily harm.”
Her mouth curved slowly upward. “You’re asking me on a thank-you outing?”
“I am.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a date.”
Every coherent thought abandoned my body. “I?—”
She laughed softly, rescuing me before I embarrassed myself further. “I’m teasing.”
I exhaled. Right. Teasing.
Definitely fine. Completely normal reaction.
Then she looked at me with that same unreadable warmth she sometimes got late at night when the kids were asleep and the house became too intimate around us.
“All right,” she said gently. “I accept.”
Relief flooded me so fast it was almost embarrassing. “Good.”
“Good,” she echoed.
Neither of us moved.
And for one dangerous suspended moment beneath the low kitchen lights, with music still faintly playing over the family room speakers and the entire house finally asleep around us, it felt far too easy to imagine reaching for her again.