11. Cam
eleven
Cam
A mie’s had this strange energy all day. It’s had her on edge, restless and agitated, and it’s had Maisy acting out, too. She’s been stubborn and moody, eventually succumbing to a blowout tantrum and tears in the afternoon, followed by a long nap in my arms.
Holding my little girl while she sleeps might be my new favourite thing. It feels like such a privilege, something I don’t ever want to take for granted. Being able to kiss away the furrow in her brow as she sleeps, matching my breathing to hers—it’s everything I never knew I wanted.
But Amie’s still full of anxious tension, and as I scrub the remnants of Maisy’s macaroni and cheese from her pink plastic bowl, I spot her leaving the kitchen and reappearing a few minutes later, dressed in forest green gym leggings and matching long sleeves. She tugs a charcoal vest over her shoulders and zips it up her torso.
“Do you mind if I go for a run?” Her eyes dart around the room nervously. I set the cutlery on the side of the sink.
“Is it safe?”
“I’m a big girl, Cam,” she insists, pulling her curls into a ponytail. “I can handle myself. ”
“That’s not what I said,” I answer evenly. It’s dark outside, and London is a big city—one I don’t know awfully well. I don’t know how safe it is for a woman to run alone in the dark.
“It’s safe enough,” she says eventually. “I wear lights. I carry pepper spray. I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” I relent. “Keep your phone on loud. Call me if you need anything— anything, Amie.”
I’ve seen firsthand today how headstrong she can be, and exactly where Maisy gets it from. I’m not blind or foolish to believe that none of her stubbornness comes from me, but today’s obstinance and tantrums looked exactly like the barely-contained irritation flashing in Amie’s eyes.
“I will,” she promises, pulling a headlamp and several clip lights from a kitchen drawer. She attaches them to her body before tucking a small cylinder into the slim pouch around her waist. After tying her shoes and kissing Maisy’s curls, she leaves with a soft click of the front door. Maisy and I are alone for the first time.
“Hey, Maisy Girl,” I call as I move from the kitchen to the living room. My daughter is building some kind of structure with wooden blocks, surrounding her dinosaur figurines with towers.
“Hi Daddy,” she says with a sigh. “Ice cream?”
Her eyes are hopeful, glancing from me to the kitchen to the door, like she’s anxiously awaiting Amie’s return.
“Sure, sweetheart, we can have ice cream.” I lift her into my arms. She wraps her little legs around my hip and clings to me, her head resting on my shoulder as she rubs at her eyes tiredly. “Let’s see what we’ve got. ”
I plop a small spoonful of strawberry ice cream into a plastic bowl with a green dinosaur on the base, and sprinkle it with the golden sprinkles I unearth from a cupboard.
Maisy tucks in eagerly, quickly making a mess with ice cream around her mouth. She’s so cute—the sight reminds me of one of the first photographs Amie showed me, and I pull out my phone to snap another picture. I send it to Amie and tuck my phone away, swiping the now-empty bowl and filling it with water in the sink.
“C’mon, Maisy Girl.” I hold out a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in pyjamas before Mommy gets home.”
Maisy pouts, but she takes my hand and lets me lead her upstairs. I run a bath, adding a small splash of sugary-sweet bubble liquid and carefully testing the temperature with my elbow the way I watched Amie do it. Mindful not to overfill the tub, I turn the faucet off before helping Maisy out of her clothes and into the water. She’s still a little subdued, and the downturn of her lips is making my stomach clench uncomfortably.
I just want her to be happy. Logically, I know she can’t be happy one hundred percent of the time—no one is. But right now, something is getting to her, and I don’t know what it is or how to fix it, and my heart twists in my chest. I’m her dad. I should know how to fix it. I need to know how to fix it. I dip a pink washcloth into the warm water and carefully wipe the ice cream moustache from Maisy’s lips, and then select a blue dinosaur from a box of bath toys.
“Who’s this?” I ask. Maisy snatches him from my hand.
“He my dinosaur,” she insists, frowning stubbornly. Okay, then .
Barely a moment later, the door clicks, and I hear Amie shuffling through the house before she appears in the bathroom doorway, untying her hair.
“Ice cream?” The storm in her hazel eyes is more ice than fire, and she mutters something under her breath. Maisy splashes the dinosaur hard into the water, drenching me from head to toe, and I sigh. That sounded remarkably like Amie’s mom-voice, and I don’t like hearing her use it on me. I get the feeling that I’ve just bulldozed straight through several boundaries—ones that weren’t made to be breached.
“C’mon, Maisy Girl, let’s get ready for bed.”
“No,” she refuses. “Stay here.”
“Mais—”
“Maisy, it’s bedtime,” Amie demands firmly. “Let’s get out of the bath now, please.”
More tears follow a long squeal of displeasure, and I use a towel to dry my damp skin as Amie fights our daughter over pyjamas. Eventually, I read a bedtime story to a little girl much less receptive than the previous night, and when she’s finally asleep, I excuse myself to the bathroom with a fresh T-shirt.
How did I fuck this up so badly?
All I want is to make Maisy happy. I want her to be loved, and I want to be the one to do it. I want Amie to be happy, and fuck, I’d sell my soul to the devil to be the one to make her happy, too. But she looked at me with a mixture of disdain and disappointment when she came home, and my throat clogs with an emotion I’m not sure I recognise.
“Ice cream,” she states simply when I find her in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the kitchen table and our bowls have been washed, dried and returned to the cupboard. I glance into the living room to see Maisy’s toys tidied away already. “She’s not allowed ice cream during the week. And I really wish you’d spoken to me before giving her a bath.”
“Amie, I’m sorry,” I start, holding out my hands in surrender. “I—”
“She’s going to play us off each other,” she interrupts me. “I’d like to think she wouldn’t, but she will. She might only be three years old but she’s smarter than both of us. She’s stubborn as hell and she’ll play us for fools if we let her.”
“I didn’t know about the ice cream,” I whisper.
“She’s been such a brat today,” she says with a long sigh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
I take a seat opposite her. Her eyes are downcast, head in her hands as she tangles her fingers in her curls.
“Don’t apologise for her, Amie,” I say firmly. “Like you said—she’s three. She’s a kid. She’s gonna have tantrums and misbehave. And she’s my daughter. I’m her dad, I want to be here—even when she’s bratty, even when she’s acting out and drowning me in her bath water.”
My chuckle comes out sounding pained, and Amie sighs, a long release of tension and breath.
“I think we need to set some ground rules,” Amie suggests, finally looking up at me. Her eyes have thawed, warming with embers teasing the end of a long night. “If you’re gonna do this—if we’re doing this, we need to set boundaries. And you need to respect them. We both do. You tried to talk her down earlier and I jumped in, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry… It’s just—it’s been me and Maisy her whole life. I need to get used to this. I need to respect your boundaries, too.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. She drops a hand from her hair and I take it immediately, gripping her fingers in mine and squeezing once .
“Most of the time she’s great, but… well, you saw her today. However cute she is when she pouts, however much you want to give her the world, you have to be firm with her. You can’t give in to every demand.”
“Okay,” I repeat. “Be firm.”
“Bedtime is seven-thirty, no exceptions.”
“Can I call her? At bedtime?”
“I think she’d like that,” Amie says slowly. “She’d like to see you.”
“I’ll FaceTime,” I decide. “At bedtime. I’ll read her a story, if she wants.”
“She’d like that,” Amie repeats. “You call me. That way, I know you’re not flying.”
“I’ll call,” I promise. “Every night.”
“If I’m working too, I’ll text you. We can conference call with Mum or Katy or whoever has her.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I’m gonna learn how to do this, Amie.” I make another promise. “I’m gonna be her dad. I’m gonna be here—for both of you.”
She squeezes my fingers, and it feels like the storm is over. Like dawn has finally broken.
“Come to Phoenix for Thanksgiving,” I request. “I want you to meet my family. I want them to meet you and Maisy.”
“When is it?” Amie asks anxiously. She’s already swiping across her phone, and I catch sight of a calendar grid on the screen.
“Last Thursday of November,” I say. Her furrowed brow melts into a smile .
“I’m off all week,” she tells me. “We’ll be there.”
She’s already booking the tickets when I pull my credit card from my wallet and hand it over.
“You don’t need to do that,” she pushes my hand away. “I’ve got this.”
“Maybe I don’t need to, but I want to, Amie. I want to take care of you. Both of you. If we’re really doing this, you have to let me contribute. Respect my boundaries too, remember?”
I try a smile, but I’m not sure how convincing it is. It must work at least a little, because Amie relents.
“Okay,” she sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. She plucks the card from my fingers and taps the number into the payment screen. My phone buzzes in my pocket to let me know the payment has been made.
“If you really want to, Maisy needs new shoes.” she turns to me, a devilish smile spreading across her face for just a moment before it drops. “And I have to start paying for childcare a few days a month when no one else can watch her.”
I earn more than enough, and I’ve never had anyone to spend it on before. I’m hardly a millionaire, or even flush with cash, but I’m more than comfortable enough to take care of Amie and Maisy. And I can’t think of anything else I’d rather spend my money on.
“Just send me the invoice, Amie. I’ll take care of it.”