6. Casey
By the following Saturday morning, the walls of the annex are starting to feel a little too close.
Not because the space isn’t beautiful, because it really is a lovely, tranquil little space.
It’s quiet, comfortable, private in a way I desperately needed a week ago when everything inside me still felt scraped raw.
But I’ve spent most of the week orbiting the same small routines.
Breakfast with Letty.
Preschool pickup.
Laundry.
Dinner.
Bath time negotiations that somehow require the strategic skills of a hostage mediator.
Then retreating to my rooms before I linger too long in spaces that don’t belong to me.
Routine helps.
When you live where you work, the lines can blur too easily if you aren’t careful. It becomes simple to let the job consume your entire world without realizing it’s happening. And lately, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve probably been hiding inside the structure of it a little too comfortably.
And this morning, when I wake to sunlight filtering softly through the curtains and realize I don’t have to be anywhere for several hours, the thought settles heavily enough in my chest that I can’t ignore it anymore.
Restlessness has always been dangerous for me.
My mind doesn’t know how to leave things alone when it has too much quiet to work with.
So I decide to leave the house and go and explore New York more.
Maybe do a little Christmas shopping. Just long enough to remind myself I still exist outside grief and routines and careful professionalism.
Reaching into the cupboard in my tiny kitchen, I grab a to-go cup and fill it with hot chocolate.
I’m not spending a fortune on drinks out when I can take one with me.
My mom worked too hard for too many years for me to ever feel comfortable wasting money on five-dollar hot chocolate.
She spent most of my childhood juggling jobs, stretching every dollar until it screamed, and somehow still made our tiny apartment feel warm and safe. I used to swear she could make a single chicken feed us for a week through sheer force of will alone.
She did everything she could to give me a better life. Then, just when her life finally started easing up a little, just when retirement stopped feeling impossible, cancer swept in and stole her before she got to enjoy any of it.
I think watching that happen ruined my ability to spend money casually forever. It’s why I’ll never waste my time on a man who doesn’t value me, no matter how hard walking away can be.
My gaze catches on the black Amex still sitting on my little kitchen counter.
I haven’t used it, which is ridiculous because Adriano gave it to me specifically for Letty, and I know refusing to touch it now is more about my own stubbornness than principle.
Still, every time I look at it, something twists awkwardly in my chest.
Not because of the money.
God knows Jasper spent enough on me over the years that expensive things shouldn’t feel emotionally loaded anymore.
But this feels different somehow. This feels like taking care of his own. It’s as natural as breathing for Adriano to provide, to protect. It’s not showy or overcompensating for absences.
Jasper’s extravagance had felt romantic in the way expensive things often do when you didn’t grow up around them—at first.
Rooftop dinners. Last-minute weekends away. Jewelry handed across white tablecloths like scenes from films my mom used to laugh at while folding laundry at midnight.
But eventually the spending started to feel strangely untethered from real intimacy, like he kept trying to bridge emotional distance with things instead of honesty.
And worse than that, sometimes accepting it makes something uncomfortable twist low in my stomach. Because no matter how beautiful the gift was, part of me could still hear my mother reminding me that nobody spends money carelessly unless they have too much of it or too little respect for it.
But Adriano hadn’t handed me the card like that.
There was no performance in it. No expectation. No subtle pressure wrapped inside the gesture.
Just simple practicality delivered in that steady, infuriatingly calm voice of his.
Use this for anything Letty needs.
Like it never once occurred to him she should go without something because of pride.
I lean against the counter, staring at the card again.
It’s absurdly heavy for something so small.
Maybe that’s what trust feels like when you’re no longer sure you know how to accept it properly. The thought unsettles me enough that I grab my coat and decide I need fresh air immediately.
The city is cold enough to sting when I step outside, sharp winter air biting at my cheeks as I pull my scarf higher and start walking toward the subway station.
Around me, New York moves at its usual relentless pace, people weaving around each other with coffees clutched in gloved hands while taxis spray slush toward the curb.
It feels good to disappear into it for a little while.
By the time I reach Bryant Park, the holiday market is already busy, strings of white lights glowing against the gray afternoon sky while music drifts softly between the stalls.
People move slowly here despite the cold, bundled in scarves and wool coats, stopping to admire ornaments and candles and handmade winter decorations.
For the first time all week, I start to feel myself relax.
The second my phone starts vibrating again, dread curls low in my stomach.
Jasper.
He’s been texting incessantly since yesterday evening, which is probably contributing more to my sudden need to escape the house than I want to admit. Apparently, he’s decided if I ignore the messages long enough, escalating to phone calls will somehow change the outcome.
It won’t.
I stare at the screen while the phone rings, his name glowing up at me while the world around me keeps moving like nothing happened.
Eventually, it stops.
A second later, another message appears.
Can we please talk?
I lock the screen immediately and shove the phone back into my bag harder than necessary.
What exactly he thinks we still have left to discuss is beyond me. He cheated. He lied. He hid a child from me while standing in my kitchen talking about our future like he hadn’t already detonated it behind my back.
There’s no conversation that fixes that.
My pulse starts climbing anyway, irritation burning hotter now than grief.
According to Isabella, this is apparently the phase where I either cut all my hair off or become an aggressive feminist who adopts six cats and starts writing angry essays about men.
Honestly, both currently feel reasonable.
I drift toward the holiday stalls, trying to shake the feeling off by focusing on thick pine garlands wrapped around wooden displays and jars of dried cranberries and orange slices meant for decorating Christmas trees instead.
Somewhere nearby, someone is selling mulled cider, the scent of cinnamon and clove curling warmly through the cold air.
My phone buzzes.
Then again.
By the fourth message, irritation starts bleeding into the edges of the afternoon badly enough that it makes me angry all over again. I pull the phone back out.
You can’t ignore me forever.
A humorless laugh almost escapes me.
Watch me, asshole.
Another one arrives almost instantly.
I made a mistake.
Hell yeah, you did.
A woman beside me reaches for a bundle of mistletoe while I stand there staring at the screen like it might suddenly explain how someone can claim to love you and lie to you in the same breath.
I type three different responses.
Delete all of them.
Then shove the phone back into my bag again.
“Casey!”
The tiny missile hits my legs before I even process the voice.
I look down just in time to catch Letty as she wraps herself around me at full speed, nearly sending both of us crashing into a table of hand-finished baubles. “Well,” I laugh, crouching automatically to steady her. “Hello to you, too.”
“You disappeared.”
“I went to buy a few Christmas presents. It’s very important work.”
“That’s what we’re doing. Daddy is helping me buy presents for my friends at school.”
I fight the urge to glance up at the man in question because, seriously, he’s helping her buy gifts for her friends. That’s seriously sweet, and I’m immune to sweet men who look devastating in a suit, or at least I’m trying to be. “That sounds fun.”
“It is, but Daddy says I can’t buy them a pony even though Josey really wants one.”
I roll my lips between my teeth to hide my smile. “Your dad is right. A pony is a big responsibility. Maybe get them some crayons so you can all color together.”
She grins at me, all teeth and confidence, and some of the tightness in my chest eases despite myself. “That’s a good idea, Casey.”
I hear a masculine scoff above me.
Then I straighten and find Adriano watching us closely.
Of course he looks unfairly good for a Saturday morning.
Dark jeans instead of tailored trousers.
Black Henley, black wool coat looking effortlessly chic, and yet still carrying that air of danger.
Sunglasses hooked into the collar instead of covering his eyes.
Normally, I’d get the ick from sunglasses in winter, thinking it is pretentious, but I know for him it’s just sense.
The winter sun is bright today, the air cool and crisp.
Relaxed, but still somehow precise.
Like even his casualness is expensive.
“Crayons?” he asks mildly.
“It’s a good choice.”
“It’s an excellent choice and I’ve been trying to persuade her for over an hour. One word from you and she capitulates.”
“That’s kids for you. You’re her dad. It’s natural she wants to push back. In fact, it’s a great thing. It shows how safe she feels with you.”
“Jesus,” he says dryly. “Stop. You’re going to make me weep, and I have a reputation to uphold.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself.
His mouth shifts slightly at the sound, not quite a smile but close enough that I notice anyway.
Then my phone buzzes again.
The sound cuts straight through the moment.