Chapter 23
SUMMER
Iopen my eyes to a foreign ceiling. It’s less textured, more swirled. A sparkly chandelier replaces the dull glow of the boob light I’m used to. This isn’t Julia’s office.
The sleepy fog lifts and everything from yesterday comes rushing back…
the move, his kiss, the kitchen. Things that would have never happened if I were anyplace but here.
Crisp white sheets cover the shirt he peeled from my body last night.
The one I swept off the floor after his daughter called his name.
I got married too young to ever experience a one-night stand. Does a person usually feel anything but confused the next day? I stood in the kitchen for an embarrassing amount of time after he left. He never came back.
We share the same priority, Everett and I. I would never have expected him to return if Quinn needed him.
She has her first speech therapy appointment today, and I intend to expend all of my focus and energy into that.
I know deep down her progress is important to him, and once a week with a professional is not very much time to accomplish that.
I’ll need to glean as much as I can from this session to work with her every other day of the week.
A cool draft of air meets my bare legs with the comforter tossed to the side.
I catch a glimpse of my appearance in the ornate mirror suspended above the dresser—disheveled hair, rosy cheeks, swollen lips—all signs of what we did.
I could really use a shower. I snag an outfit from the suitcase I never unpacked because I was so busy dissecting our hallway kiss.
That warm cup of coffee was a lame excuse for why I was even awake in the first place.
Their rooms are empty when I dash to the bathroom to get ready.
The spray of the shower and the drone of the fan block any signs of people being awake.
Once they’re both turned off and I’m dressed, I hear his voice.
It’s muted, but I think he’s singing in the living room.
He sounds happy. I let that settle in for a second.
At least last night didn’t make him spiral.
With the smoky smell of bacon absent from the air, I decide to help with breakfast. I see them before they see me descending the stairs. Everett’s still in the same sweats. The sight makes my stomach clench.
Quinn climbs on top of her blanket that’s splayed out on the carpet. Everett squats down and bunches each corner into one fist. He lifts her off the floor and swings her like a pendulum. Her head pops through a small opening between the edges.
“Summa! Woot at me! Win-a-wa!”
Everett turns over his shoulder. He’s wearing his glasses again and has never looked more handsome to me.
“Good morning,” he says between verses of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Quinn squeals through her made-up win-a-wa version of the lyrics.
“Good morning,” I choke out. Emotion seems to be invading my voice.
This is the happiest I’ve seen them together since I showed up on their doorstep three weeks ago.
Near the end of the verse, he sends her sliding across the polished wood floor near my feet. She jumps up to hug me.
“You have a fun daddy,” I tell her. I’m looking at him; he’s looking at me. There’s nothing but admiration in his eyes.
“Again! Again!” Quinn shouts.
“We need to finish breakfast. You have school today, and then Summer is picking you up for a fun appointment.”
I catch it when he struggles to get out the word fun.
I know he’s doing this for Quinn. Making it sound exciting when I’m sure his memories of it are anything but.
He hasn’t shared any more about his disability since the night in the studio, but I gathered that “fun” wasn’t a word he would ever use to describe it.
“Otay!” She bounds for the table, and he turns to me.
“I sent over a signed form this morning granting you permission to take her to her appointments. If they give you any trouble, you can have them call me.”
I nod. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks. Next to the mug is a bottle of my favorite hazelnut creamer. “I figured, if you’re going to be living here, you deserve for it to feel like your home too. Julia told me you like this one.”
The confused feelings I woke up with vanish. You don’t ask a girl’s best friend what her favorite kind of coffee creamer is if you don’t like her.
“I’d love some. Thank you.”
“About last night,” he says, handing me the mug.
I was going to avoid this topic until later when we didn’t have a toddler in the same room, but now I have a sudden urge to clear the air.
“Everett, I—”
He grabs my wrist—the same one he touched that first time in the parking lot. It’s an intentional gesture. A reminder of the moment we shared.
“I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”
He isn’t letting go, and I don’t want him to.
“Quinn doesn’t usually wake up in the middle of the night, let alone in this house. She needed her mo—I slept on her floor.”
That’s why he never came back. Not for the million other reasons that had me second-guessing my decision to move. I know he’s trying to convey that he doesn’t regret it. And if his eyes focused on my mouth don’t send the message, the distracting stroke of his thumb on my wrist sure does.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
He leans in close and with a sultry whisper, says, “The only thing I’m apologizing for is not getting to see you wake up in that shirt.”
He lets go and brushes by me, leaving the heat of his hand, his mouth, everything behind. I blow out a breath, hoping it expels the warmth from my cheeks with it. If not, I’m going to need a big gulp of this coffee to explain away the flush that has found a home in my face.
“There’s always tomorrow.”
We exchange a stolen glance.
“I’m counting on it.”
“You must be Summer,” the speech therapist says, sitting in the chair across from us.
Everett briefed me over breakfast. He wasn’t kidding when he said this place is busy, even at 3:00 on a Monday. There was zero chance for introductions in the packed waiting room she retrieved us from.
“Yeah, I’m Quinn’s nanny.”
Sue is exactly how I pictured the stoic yet inviting person Everett described her to be as she shakes my hand.
“I’m so glad you could come see me again today, Quinn.”
We both laugh when she says, “Yeah,” instead of me too, her attention too enraptured on a family of plastic figurines in front of her to pay us any attention.
“Before we get started, I was hoping I could run something by you.” Sue turns toward me.
I sit taller. “Of course.”
“I noticed Quinn’s dad left this form blank. Do you know if he plans on signing it?”
I briefly scan the document she hands me, plucking out words like HIPPA, school communication, and progress monitoring. All of which tell me Everett would be granting this practice the ability to pass Quinn’s confidential target goals and growth over to her teacher.
Would he want this?
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“That’s okay. It’s optional. Maybe you could take it with you though and double-check?”
“Of course.”
“Awesome. Well… your turn, Quinn. Ready?”
“Re-eee,” Quinn repeats.
“I see you’ve found my friends here.” Sue holds up a female doll with gray hair. “This is the grandma.”
“To-To,” Quinn says back.
Sue looks at me.
“Coco is her grandma’s name.”
“Oh! How cute!”
I smile at her. Don’t say that to Caroline. I wonder if Everett’s told her about any of this. After pushing for speech therapy at the birthday party, I’m sure it would win him some brownie points if she knew he had gotten Quinn the help that she needs.
Sue holds up the female doll with black hair next. “This is the mommy.”
“Mommy,” Quinn repeats with ease.
Sue jots down a couple of notes, then holds up the matching male doll. “And this is the daddy.”
“Da-eee.”
“Yes, daddy,” Sue says again, only this time she emphasizes the d sound in the middle of the word. “You like your daddy, huh?”
Quinn nods.
They practice labeling each figurine before Sue collects the dolls off the table and stows them in a wicker basket near her feet.
Without the distraction of the toys, Quinn waits.
Sue reaches for a binder on a metal shelf bolted to the wall next to her.
The laminated pages fan as she flips to a picture of a girl on a rollercoaster.
“She’s going down. Can you say ‘down’?”
Quinn nails the word on the first try.
“Good!” She scans for another page. “She’s on a ride. Can you say ‘ride’?”
A shuffle of feet and a flash of shadows draw Quinn’s attention to the door. Sue makes popping sounds with her mouth. It redirects Quinn’s eyes to her lips. “Try it,” she encourages when it makes Quinn smile.
Quinn mimics the noise.
“That’s a fun sound to make, huh?”
“Yeah!” Quinn carries on with the lip-smacking.
“What about this one?” Sue points to her mouth as she shows Quinn how to form the sound for the letter d, touching her tongue to her front pallet while bringing her teeth together.
The sound gets easier for her to make the more times Quinn tries it.
“That’s it!” I cheer proudly. I wish Everett were here to see how well she’s doing.
Sue breaks her focus from Quinn to me. “That’s how you can help her at home.
The more practice, the better. Talk your way through daily tasks: ‘I’m putting on your shirt.
Look, it’s pink. It has a kitty on it.’ It will feel silly since we don’t annotate our day like that, but exposure to sounds is what will help her vocabulary grow. ”
“Okay.” I can do that.
At the end of the session, Sue holds out a prize basket. Quinn fishes through Kit Kat bars and stretchy bracelets, pulling out a ladybug sticker.
“I put those in there just for you.” Sue winks at her. “I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Otay.” Quinn peels off the back and sticks it to her purple shirt.
“It looks great on you!” I tell her as I thank her speech therapist and follow her lead to the front door.
“Show Da-ee?” Quinn asks as we step outside into the sunshine.
“Yes,” I say. But what I’m really thinking is, just wait for the day, little Quinny, when you have even more to show your daddy from this place than a sticker.