Chapter 8 #2
Orry's face keeps surfacing. That dimple. Those eyes. The sticky muffin hand patting my cheek.
Dada.
Four-fifteen a.m. I give up. Make coffee. Open my laptop.
Practical Support Strategies (Non-Invasive)
The title alone sounds ridiculous. Like I'm planning a corporate merger instead of trying to connect with my possible son.
But spreadsheets are what I know. So I type.
Childcare assistance: Offer weekend babysitting. Low pressure. Gives Cecie freedom, builds trust.
Financial support: Review Sparkle Beauty accounts. Identify tax optimization opportunities. Small business owners often miss deductions.
Logistics: Plaza maintenance coordination. Ensure her storefront gets priority for repairs.
The list is pathetic. Transactional. Everything I do filtered through the lens of useful because I don't know how to just be around them.
Clarence sits beside my coffee mug. I pick him up. Press the cracked seven button repeatedly.
"I'm spiraling."
Clarence's display flickers. Agrees.
The letter to Cecie lays on the corner of my desk. I reread it. Still terrible. Still necessary.
Five-thirty. The plaza won't open for hours, but I shower anyway. Shave. Iron a shirt. Choose a tie, then remove it. Too formal. This isn't a business meeting.
It's an apology. An offering. A plea.
Six-fifteen. I pocket the letter. Leave the apartment. Walk to the plaza even though it's absurdly early.
The streets are quiet. Dawn breaking over the storefront awnings. Sparkle Beauty's sign catches the light, glitter embedded in the paint sparkling like captured stars.
I stand outside. Rehearse opening lines.
Cecie, I'm sorry.
I know you're angry, but please hear me out.
I brought this letter. It explains everything. Or tries to.
All terrible.
The door is locked. Obviously. It's six-thirty on a Saturday morning. She's probably home. Probably sleeping. Probably not thinking about the orc who lied to her and then confessed possible fatherhood in the worst way imaginable.
I pull out my phone. Type a text.
Can we talk?
Delete it. Try again.
I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, but I need you to know I never meant to hurt you.
Also terrible. Delete.
I'm outside your store. Not in a creepy way. I couldn't sleep. I have a letter. Can I leave it for you?
Somehow worse. Delete everything. Pocket the phone.
Then I slide the letter under her apartment door. Watch it disappear into the gap. Feel my stomach drop because there's no taking it back now.
Monday morning. Colum finds me at my desk surrounded by tenant reports I'm not actually reading.
"You look like hell."
"Didn't sleep."
"Still?" He sets down a coffee. "Gunther, you can't function on anxiety alone."
"Watch me."
He pulls up a chair. Sits backwards on it like we're in some teen drama. "Did you talk to Cecie?"
"I wrote her a letter."
"A letter." He blinks. "Like. On paper?"
"I slid it under her door Saturday morning."
"And?"
"And nothing. She hasn't responded." I refresh my email for the fortieth time this hour. Still empty. "Maybe she threw it away. Maybe she's consulting a lawyer. Maybe—"
"Maybe she needs time to process." Colum's voice gentles. "You dropped a bomb on her, man. She's allowed to sit with it."
I know he's right. Doesn't make the waiting easier.
"I want to help." The words come out frustrated. "I want to do something. But every option feels like overstepping or hiding or making it worse."
"So don't overthink it." He taps my desk. "Be useful. Practical. That's your language, right? Show her you're serious without demanding answers."
"Like what?"
"Babysitting." He says it like it's obvious. "Offer to watch Orry. Give her a break. Single parents need support."
The idea lodges as terrifying. Perfect. "What if she says no?"
"Then she says no. But at least you offered."
I turn it over in my mind. Orry. Me. Unsupervised. What would I even do with a baby for an afternoon?
Read to him. Play blocks. Count things. You're good at counting.
"Okay." I nod slowly. "I'll offer. Neutral. Low pressure."
"Good." Colum stands. "Also, I'm reviewing her lease going forward. Keeping you out of the conflict of interest."
"She'll think I'm avoiding her."
"You'll explain you're being ethical." He heads for the door, then pauses. "And Gunther? The accounts thing is smart. Offer to review her books. Small business owners always need financial help."
He leaves. I sit alone with my coffee and the kernel of a plan.
I draft the email Tuesday afternoon. Delete it seventeen times. Finally settle on:
Cecie,
I understand if you need space. But I want to help in whatever way you'll allow.
If you ever need childcare, weekend babysitting, emergency coverage, I'm available. No strings. No expectations.
Also, if you'd like a second set of eyes on Sparkle Beauty's accounts, I'm happy to review for tax optimization. Pro bono. It's what I do.
I'm not trying to intrude. Just offering support.
Gunther
I read it forty times. It sounds stiff. Professional. Safe.
I hit send before I can overthink it further.
Wednesday. No response.
Thursday. Still nothing.
Friday afternoon, my phone vibrates during a client meeting. I ignore it until the presentation ends, then check.
Fine. Saturday 2pm. One hour. Bring your calculator if it makes you feel better.
I view the message six times over.
Fine. Not exactly enthusiastic. But not a rejection either.
I type back: Thank you. I'll be there.
Her response is immediate: Don't make me regret this.
Saturday arrives with all the subtlety of a freight train. I wake at five. Pace my apartment. Organize my bookshelf by author, then by publication date, then alphabetically again because my hands won't stay still.
One o'clock. I leave early. Walk to the plaza. Stand outside Sparkle Beauty rehearsing normal human behavior.
Smile. Don't babble. Listen more than you talk. Babies like calm energy.
One-fifty. I knock.
Cecie opens the door. Hair in a messy bun. Yoga pants. Oversized sweater. No makeup except a bright lipstick that makes her eyes look huge.
She's beautiful. Exhausted. Guarded.
"Hi."
"Hi." I hold up my messenger bag. "I brought. Um. Toys? I wasn't sure what babies like, so I got blocks and a counting book and some. Wooden things shaped like animals?"
Her expression softens a fraction. "He's seven months. He'll try to eat all of it."
"Right. Good to know."
She steps aside. I enter.
Sparkle Beauty smells like vanilla and something floral. The space is small but organized, shelves of cosmetics, a mirror station, a play area in the corner where Orry sits surrounded by plush toys.
He looks up when I enter. Grins. That dimple.
"Duh!"
My heart stops. Restarts. Stutters.
"He's been doing that all week." Cecie's voice is careful. Watching my reaction. "Just. That sound. Probably doesn't mean anything."
It means everything.
"Can I?" I gesture toward Orry.
She nods.
I crouch down. Orry immediately reaches for my glasses. I let him take them. He holds them up to his face, squinting through the lenses, then giggles.
"Gentle." I take them back. Show him how they fold. He watches, fascinated, then claps.
Cecie is at the counter. Arms crossed. "So. Babysitting."
"If you're comfortable." I set my bag down. Pull out the blocks. "I thought. If you need an afternoon. To run errands or. Just breathe. I could watch him. Here or at my place. Wherever you prefer."
"Your place." She laughs. It sounds sharp. "The financial analyst's apartment. I'm sure it's baby-proofed."
"It could be." I stack three blocks. Orry immediately knocks them down. Squeals. "I'd make it safe. Outlet covers. Corner guards. Remove anything hazardous."
"You've researched this."
"I research everything."
She's quiet for a moment. Orry climbs into my lap. Pats my cheek. The same gesture from before. I freeze, terrified of moving wrong.
"He likes you." Cecie's voice goes soft. Sad. "I don't know if that makes this easier or harder."
"Cecie—"
"I read your letter." She looks at her hands. "The apology. The explanation. The. Everything."
My pulse hammers. "And?"
"And I'm still angry." She locks eyes with me. "You lied. You pretended to be someone else. And now you show up in my life looking like. Like this." She gestures at me. "Glasses and spreadsheets and offering to do my taxes like that makes up for it."
"It doesn't." I keep my voice steady. "I know it doesn't. But I'm trying to show you I'm serious. That I want to be here. For both of you."
"Why?" The question cracks. "Because of guilt? Obligation? You think you owe me something?"
"Because he's my son." The words come out raw. True. "I don't need a test to know. I see it every time he smiles. Every time he looks at me. But if you need proof, I'll take one. Whatever makes you feel secure."
She blinks rapidly. Not crying. Refusing to cry. "A paternity test."
"Only if you want." I shift Orry gently. He's playing with my collar now, babbling nonsense. "I trust you. But I understand if you need the certainty."
"I do." Her voice firms. "Because this isn't just about feelings or dimples or whatever cosmic coincidence brought you back into my life. This is about Orry. About making sure he's protected. Legally. Financially."
"Agreed."
"There's a clinic on Fourth. They do same-day appointments." She pulls out her phone. Scrolls. "I'll schedule it. We'll go together. Get the results. Then we. Figure out what comes next."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She hops off the counter. "You're still on probation. One wrong move and—"
"I understand."
Orry squirms. I set him down. He toddles to Cecie, arms up. She lifts him. Kisses his head. Whispers something I can't hear.
Then she looks at me. "The accounts thing. You serious about that?"
"Completely."
"Fine. Monday. Bring your calculator boyfriend and we'll talk deductions."
I blink. "Calculator. Boyfriend?"
"Colum mentioned you name your office supplies." The corner of her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "It's weird. But. Kind of endearing."
"His name is Clarence."
"Of course it is." She shakes her head. Softens. "Okay. Saturday babysitting trial. One hour. I'm going to the corner shop for milk. You'll stay here with Orry. Don't let him eat anything that isn't food. Don't let him destroy the inventory. And if he cries, there are bottles in the mini-fridge."
"Got it."
She sets Orry down. Grabs her purse. Pauses at the door. "Gunther?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm still furious with you."
"I know."
"But. I'm glad you're trying."
She leaves before I can respond. The door chimes. Orry and I peer at each other.
"Duh?"
"Yeah, buddy." I sit cross-legged on the floor. Pull out the blocks. "Dada's here."
One hour turns into ninety minutes. Cecie returns with grocery bags and a slightly less hostile expression.
Orry's asleep in my arms. Drooling on my shirt. The blocks are scattered everywhere. I've read the counting book fourteen times.
"He went down easy." I keep my voice low. "Fed him a bottle around three. Changed one diaper. He tried to eat a block but I stopped him."
Cecie sets down the bags. Studies us. "You're a natural."
"Hardly." But warmth blooms across my face. "He's. He's wonderful."
"Yeah." She crouches beside us. Brushes Orry's hair back. "He is."
For a moment we just exist there. The three of us. Almost a family.
Then my phone dings. I shift carefully, pull it out.
Colum: I think you two should do this right. Meet me tomorrow—bring Orry.
I frown. Show Cecie the message. "Any idea what this means?"
She reads it. Groans. "It means Colum is meddling."
"He does that."
"Frequently." She stands. "We don't have to go."
"Or." I look at Orry. Sleeping and perfect. "We could. See what he has planned. Worst case, it's awkward."
"Everything's already awkward."
"Fair point."
She considers. Then sighs. "Fine. Tomorrow. But if he's staging some ridiculous public reconciliation event, I'm leaving."
"Deal."
I stand carefully. Transfer Orry to her arms. He doesn't wake. Just shifts and sighs.
Cecie walks me to the door. "Thank you. For today."
"Anytime."
"I mean it." Her eyes are serious. "You showed up. You helped. You didn't. Push."
"I'm trying to respect your boundaries."
"Keep trying." But she almost smiles. "And Gunther? About the test. I scheduled it for Tuesday. Ten a.m."
"I'll be there."
"Good."
I leave. Walk home through the cooling evening. And for the first time in weeks, the anxiety eases a fraction.
Tuesday. Answers. Proof.
And tomorrow. Whatever Colum has planned.
I should be nervous. Instead I feel something dangerously close to hope.