Chapter 5
Liam
By the time Charlotte leaves the bakery, I am not sure which part of me is working harder: my heart, my brain, or the part of me that really wants to drag her back and kiss her again.
She walks out with a flushed face and slightly swollen lips. I know they look like that because of me and that thought alone is dangerous enough.
The bell over the door jingles as she exits. The bakery feels too quiet in the space she leaves behind.
Maisie settles back at her table, crayons spread out around her. She draws a circle, a stick person, then a heart, humming softly like she didn’t just ask if I was kissing Charlotte two minutes ago.
I wipe my hands on a towel and try to focus. There are still customers. There is still a business to run. There is still my daughter, who absolutely saw more than I wish she had.
We make it through the last hour with half my brain somewhere else and the other half barely holding everything together.
When Henry comes in to cover the late afternoon rush, I use the excuse of “office work” to retreat to the small back room with the crooked desk, counting down minutes until closing time.
By the time we lock the front door and Mark takes off with a wave, it is just me and Maisie again. The bakery is quiet, the equipment is off, and the smell of sugar lingers in the air.
Maisie climbs up on a stool by the counter, swinging her legs. “Daddy?”
“Yeah?” I turn off the last light above the display.
She waits until I look at her fully, which is never a good sign.
“Are you going to marry Charlotte?”
I almost swallow my tongue. “What?”
She shrugs like this is a normal question about snacks. “You kissed her.”
I blink. “I did not kiss her.”
“Yes you did,” she says. “Your faces were close and then they were smushed.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That is not the definition of kissing.”
She thinks about that. “It looked like kissing.”
I sigh. “Okay. First of all, you cannot just say that kind of thing out loud.”
“Why?”
“Because it is private.”
She tilts her head. “Then why did you do it where my eyes are?”
I stare at her. “You are very difficult sometimes, you know that?”
She smiles. “You tell me that a lot.”
I walk over and lift her down from the stool. “We are going home. You need dinner and I need… quiet.”
“Do you need quiet to think about Charlotte?” she asks.
I nearly walk into the door.
“No,” I lie.
She looks entirely unconvinced.
We grab her backpack and lock up. The evening air is cool as we walk to the truck. Maisie chatters about school projects and a kid named Ethan who insists dinosaurs still live under his bed. Her words fade into the background because my brain keeps replaying the feel of Charlotte’s mouth on mine.
I get Maisie buckled, climb into the driver’s side, and grip the steering wheel like it might help me think straight.
“Daddy?” she says again.
“Hmm?”
“Do you like her?” she asks.
I stare at the windshield for a long beat. “I think she is a good person,” I say carefully.
“That is not what I asked,” she says.
I glance at her. “You are six.”
“And?”
“And why are you cross-examining me like a lawyer?”
She shrugs and looks out the window. “She makes you look less tired.”
That lands harder than it should. I pull away from the curb, jaw tight.
Because she is not wrong.
And that might be the most alarming part.
At home, the evening routine feels almost normal. I make dinner, it’s nothing fancy, just mac, cheese, hot dogs, and chicken nuggets. Maisie talks the entire way through dinner, thankfully, not once talking about the kiss.
Afterward, she takes her bath, splashes water everywhere and insists on wearing pajamas with stars for extra dream power.
I tuck her into bed, making sure she’s all cozy.
“Story?” she asks.
“Short one,” I say. “You need sleep.”
She nods and pulls her stuffed sloth closer. I grab the book on her nightstand, but before I can open it, she says, “Wait.”
I brace myself. “What now?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Which one?”
“About Charlotte. Do you like her?” Her eyes are sleepy but sharp, too observant for my comfort.
I think about lying. I really do.
But she is my kid. We don’t do lies in this house. Not the big ones, anyway.
“I like her,” I say quietly.
She smiles like she knew it all along. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because she’s nice,” she says simply. “And she listens when I talk.”
I feel something twist in my chest. “You think I don’t listen when you talk?”
She scrunches her nose. “You listen, but you also make your thinking face.”
“My thinking face?”
“Yep,” she says, touching between her eyebrows. “Right here.”
I huff. “I listen to you.”
“I know,” she says. “But you listen differently.”
“Different how?”
She yawns and shrugs. “She makes you smile,” she says.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You make me smile.”
“I know.” She smiles back at me. “Now read.”
I do. I read the story, but halfway through, her eyes flutter closed. By the end, she is fully asleep, fingers still tangled in the sloth’s fur.
I stand slowly, watching her breathe, and something heavy and warm settles in my chest. This is my center. She is everything.
Which is exactly why the thought of letting someone like Charlotte into it makes me want to run and stay at the same time.
I turn off the light, leaving the door cracked, and walk down the hall to the small living room. I drop onto the couch and stare at the blank television screen.
I am wired. Too wired to sleep.
I pull out my phone and stare at Charlotte’s number for a full minute.
She texted earlier to say she got back to the inn safe and that the muffins were completely unfair to her self-control. She added a heart emoji she might have meant as festival branding.
Or maybe not.
I type out a message. Delete it. Type another. Delete that one too.
I hate this. I hate the uncertainty, the open-ended possibility, the part of me that wants more when I swore I was done wanting that kind of thing.
I drop my head back against the couch and close my eyes. I have two choices. I can either avoid it and pretend the kiss was a one-off lapse in judgment or be an adult and talk to her.
Both sound terrible.
I scroll to my mom’s contact and call her before I can think too hard about it.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi,” I say.
“You sound stressed,” she says. “Is this a, can you watch Maisie call or a my life is falling apart, call?”
“Maybe both,” I mutter.
She laughs softly. “I can take her tomorrow after school. I miss my girl anyway. What is going on?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
“Liam.” Her mom voice comes through the phone crystal clear. “Do not try that on me. I changed your diapers. I know when you’re full of it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s this woman,” I say, which feels like the understatement of the century.
“Oh,” she says. Just that one syllable, loaded.
“It isn’t… I don’t know what it is,” I say. “She’s in town for the festival. We have been working together. Maisie likes her.”
“And you?” she asks gently.
I stare at the wall. “Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”
“Okay,” Mom says, like this is not complicated. “And what’s the problem?”
“She is temporary,” I say. “She’s leaving after the festival. And I am not exactly good at… this.”
“This,” she repeats.
“Dating,” I say.
“You say that like you’re eighty,” she says. “You’re thirty-two, Liam. Not ancient.”
“It feels like a lot,” I say. “For me and for Maisie.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Has Maisie met her?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“And?”
“She likes her.”
“Then you’re already in it,” Mom says simply. “So the question is not whether you can avoid it. The question is what you’re going to do about it.”
I let out a low breath. “I don’t know.”
“Do you trust her?” Mom asks.
I answer without thinking. “Yes.”
“Do you feel like yourself around her or are you pretending?”
“I feel… more like myself,” I say, surprised by my own words.
“Then talk to her,” Mom says. “You don’t have to have a five-year plan. You just have to be honest.”
“What if it hurts?” I ask.
“It might,” she says, not sugarcoating it. “But you’re allowed to have something good, even if it is not guaranteed forever.”
I close my eyes. That hits a part of me I keep locked tight.
“Let me take Maisie tomorrow,” she says. “Go talk to her, face to face, not over text. You hate texting anyway.”
“That’s true,” I say.
“And if you need me,” she adds, “I am here. Always.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Of course. Now go to bed. You sound like you have your thinking face on.”
Everyone is ganging up on my face today.
We hang up, and I sit there for another minute, then I set my phone down and make the decision.
Tomorrow, I’m going to see Charlotte, no texts, and no hiding behind work. Just us, talking, and maybe more, if we’re both honest about what we want.
The next morning starts earlier than usual. I swing by my mom’s house to drop off Maisie’s overnight bag for later, Mom’s also going to drop her to school.
Mom meets us at the door in her slippers, hair pulled up, eyes bright.
“There’s my girl,” she says, bending down to hug Maisie. “I get you before and after school today. Are you ready for a fun day?”
“Yes,” Maisie says. “We’re going to make pancakes.”
Mom smiles. “We sure are.”
“That’s his favorite,” Maisie stage-whispers, jerking her thumb at me.
Mom winks. “I know.”
I clear my throat. “I’ll pick her up tomorrow morning. Are you sure about this?”
Mom waves a hand. “We’ll be fine. Go do your… talking.” She says it in a loaded way that makes my ears warm.
“Grandma,” Maisie says. “Daddy likes Charlotte.”
Mom’s smile widens. “Does he now?”
“Okay,” I interrupt. “And we are done here.”
Mom just laughs. “Drive safe.”
I leave them on the porch, no doubt conspiring against me, and head to the bakery.