Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
HAYDEN
The house feels different.
It’s cleaner, for one. The floor is clutter-free. Shoes are lined up instead of scattered like leaves. There’s no vague sense of chaos humming under the surface. No half-finished mess waiting for me to deal with the second I step inside.
None of the nannies Robert suggested ever cleaned like this.
They’d tidy up after whatever disaster the kids created while they were on duty, but that was it.
If there were shoes and socks scattered on the floor when they got here in the morning, they’d still be here when I arrived home.
They never looked ahead. Never went beyond the bare minimum.
Sometimes they didn’t even do that.
And they definitely didn’t cook for me.
Not that I expected or asked them to. But it’s surprising how good it feels not to walk through the door already bracing myself.
With the last few nannies, I barely had a chance to set my keys down before they were heading out, leaving me to jump straight into dad mode.
Not Rowan.
Even after a day full of keeping Jemmy entertained, she’s giving me time to myself.
I slip into my bedroom and take a quick shower, letting the hot water pour over me, rinsing the antiseptic smell of the office off my skin. I stand under the stream, eyes closed, enjoying the quiet.
But the longer I remain here, the guiltier I feel, so I finish quickly and dry off, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt before heading back downstairs.
Rowan’s voice carries through the living room before I even reach the kitchen.
“Now you can put some sauce on each piece of chicken.”
She’s obviously giving Presley instructions.
When I walked into the house earlier, I was shocked to see Presley helping Rowan. To see her willingly doing anything other than sitting quietly with her sketchpad is extremely rare. But Rowan seems to have coaxed her out of her shell.
I slow my steps and linger in the doorway of the kitchen so I can watch them without interrupting.
Presley stands by the island, spooning sauce over breaded chicken with careful precision. Rowan lingers beside her, relaxed, present, like she has nowhere else to be.
My daughter looks happier. Lighter. More at ease than she has in a long time.
Maybe because Rowan doesn’t talk to her like she’s fragile. Or broken. Or like there’s something wrong with her.
She talks to her like she’s a regular kid.
“Next up is mozzarella,” Rowan instructs. “You could use shredded, but I like the fresh stuff.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Mostly because I can eat it while I work.”
She pops a slice into her mouth.
Presley grins and follows suit.
Rowan looks up, catching sight of me. She gives me a small smile that shouldn’t have any effect on me. But a strange warmth fills me.
Then she turns back to Presley, who carefully arranges the cheese over the chicken. When she finishes, there’s one slice left.
Presley snatches it and shoves it into her mouth, her eyes bright with triumph.
“Hey!” Rowan gasps. “You beat me to it.” She winks, lifting a cheese grater I didn’t even know I owned. “Last step. Parmesan. Because there’s no such thing as too much cheese.”
She picks up a block of cheese and rubs it against the grater. Once there’s a large pile of cheese, they sprinkle it over the chicken together.
“Thank you for your help,” she says warmly after sliding the casserole dish into the oven. “Now we wait for the cheese to get all melty and gooey.”
Presley beams as she heads toward the table. Then she changes course and walks straight to me. Before I can process what’s happening, she wraps her arms around my waist.
I stiffen out of instinct.
I can’t remember the last time Presley hugged me like this. Or anyone, really. After Cora died, everything shifted. She closed down. Shut out the world. We both did.
Pushing out a breath, I pull her closer, my arms tightening around her. The contact feels grounding. Real. A reminder of what’s important.
When she pulls away, she skips to the table, acting as if hugging me is the most normal thing in the world when it’s been months since she’s initiated this kind of contact with anyone.
I push off the wall and join Rowan by the island. She checks the spaghetti, then opens the fridge and pulls out romaine, tomatoes, and a cucumber.
“So,” I begin, grabbing the lettuce and a knife. “Things go okay today?”
“We had a great day,” she replies, slicing tomatoes. “Jemmy taught me how to roar like a dinosaur. And I taught him some yoga poses.”
“Yoga?” I glance at Jemmy. “He’s not even two.”
“It helped him burn energy and wind down before his nap. Plus, you’re never too young to check in with your body.” She looks at Jemmy. “Tell Daddy what you learned.”
“Down dog!” Jemmy announces proudly.
“That’s right.”
I smile despite myself. “Good job, buddy. You’ll have to show me.”
Jemmy slams his hands on the tray and kicks his legs straight out, attempting the pose from his high chair.
“Maybe later.”
“K, Dada.”
I put the romaine into a colander and bring it to the sink, rinsing it. “I have to admit,” I begin as I place the lettuce into the salad bowl. “I’m impressed.”
Rowan arches a brow. “Were your expectations so low that you’d be surprised to learn I managed to keep your kids alive?”
“No.” I laugh nervously. “Maybe. I just…”
“Like I said this morning… Kids feed off your energy. If you’re tense, they’re tense. If you’re relaxed, they relax too. Now why don’t you go relax with your kids while I finish up?”
“I can help clean.” I reach for the bowls from the breading station.
But before I can bring them over to the sink, she wraps her hand around my forearm.
The contact sends heat skittering along my skin, sharp and unexpected. Every nerve seems to zero in on that one point of contact, like my body’s been waiting for it.
It’s not the first time it’s happened either. Every single time she’s touched me, my body reacts this way.
But this time, it’s even more pronounced.
Because this time, there’s no barrier. It’s skin against skin.
It’s probably because it’s been so long since I’ve felt anyone touch me.
Since Cora.
And even then, it never felt like this. Like something inside me is waking up, confused and unwelcome and very much alive.
“The only thing you need to do,” Rowan says softly, “is spend time with your kids.”
“Okay,” I respond because it’s the only thing I can manage right now, all my focus on the place where her skin meets mine.
“Okay,” she echoes, then lets go.
It takes my legs a second to remember how to move.
Then I join my kids at the table in the breakfast nook, looking between Jemmy and Presley.
I search my brain for something to say, but I draw a blank.
These are my kids, for crying out loud. They have my DNA running through them. It shouldn’t be this hard.
And what makes it worse is that Rowan doesn’t seem to have this problem, even though she was a stranger to them yesterday. Yet she connects with them effortlessly while I feel like I’m fumbling through my own life.
“How was school?” I ask Presley, unsure what else to say.
She shrugs, her way of showing indifference.
She’s indifferent about most everything these days.
“Are you excited about your field trip next week?”
She grabs her notepad, writes something, and slides it toward me.
Do I have to go?
At least her handwriting has improved since she stopped talking.
Her therapist suggested teaching her sign language. I considered it. Even signed her up for classes. But Robert talked me out of it. Said it would only encourage her to remain silent.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t argue about much back then, too numb from grief. Now I’m not so sure it was the right call. If Cora were here, I’m pretty sure she’d tell her father to mind his own business and would do what’s in Presley’s best interests.
Rowan returns with plates, placing one in front of Presley and me. Presley’s chicken is cut into neat pieces, and she has carrots instead of salad. Jemmy has bite-sized portions, too, and to my surprise, he digs in immediately.
“If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to head to my room,” Rowan states. “Everything’s cleaned. You just need to load the dishwasher.”
“Why don’t you eat with us?” I suggest.
She lifts a container. “I packed mine to go. This is your family time.”
She kisses Jemmy’s head. “Thanks for playing with me today, bud.” Then she moves toward Presley, giving her a squeeze. “Want to help me cook again tomorrow?”
Presley nods eagerly, her entire expression lighting up, a stark contrast from moments ago when I attempted to strike up a conversation.
“You got it,” Rowan replies, then looks my way. “Good night, boss.”
“Good night,” I say as she turns and makes her way toward the in-law apartment.
When the sound of her footsteps fades and my kids turn their attention back to me, I know we’re all thinking the same thing.
That the kitchen already seems empty without her.