Chapter 9
CECIE
Sunday morning. Seven a.m. My doorbell rings.
I'm still in pajamas. Orry's covered in mashed banana. The shop's closed but the apartment above it looks like a glitter bomb mated with a laundry pile and produced chaos.
I buzz Gunther in because I'm too tired to lie.
He arrives carrying a thermal coffee carafe and a bag from the bakery two blocks over. Wearing khakis and a polo shirt like he's attending a business-casual playdate.
"You're early."
"Colum's meeting isn't until noon." He sets the coffee down. Takes in the disaster zone that is my kitchen. "I thought. Maybe. You could use help?"
Orry shrieks. Banana flies. Lands in Gunther's hair.
I wait for him to flinch. Leave. Realize this whole dad thing is a terrible mistake.
Instead he plucks the banana out. Wipes his hand on a dish towel. "Good arm."
"He's been practicing." I grab a cloth. Attempt damage control on Orry's face. He squirms like I'm torturing him. "You don't have to do this."
"I want to."
"Gunther—"
"Please." He blinks at me. Earnest and uncomfortable and somehow exactly what I need. "Let me help."
I'm too exhausted to argue.
"Fine. But if you break something or let him eat anything toxic, I'm kicking you out."
"Understood."
I pour coffee. He unpacks pastries. Orry bangs his spoon on the high chair tray and hollers what might be a song.
Gunther watches him. Smile tugging at that damned dimple.
Don't get attached. Don't trust this. He could still walk away.
But he's here. Now. Covered in banana and offering bear claws. I take a pastry. Bite. It's perfect.
"Okay. Lesson one. Diaper changing."
Gunther approaches the changing table like it's a bomb.
"It's just pee and poop," I say. "You've dealt with worse."
"Have I?" He stares at Orry's squirming legs. "This feels. Significant."
"It's a diaper. Not a marriage contract."
"Right." He takes a breath. Rolls up his sleeves. "Walk me through it."
I do. Step by step. Wipes, cream, fresh diaper, strategic dodging when Orry tries to grab his own feet and flip sideways.
Gunther's hands shake. But he's careful. Methodical. Treats every fastener like a mathematical proof.
"You're overthinking this."
"I overthink everything."
"Noted." I hand him the next wipe. "But babies don't care about precision. They care about speed and not getting cold."
He nods. Focuses. Finishes the diaper in record time.
Orry kicks happily. Gunther grins.
"I did it."
"You did." I scoop Orry up. "Gold star. Don't let it go to your head."
But I'm smiling too. Can't help it.
Lesson two: nap time cues.
"He rubs his eyes when he's tired," I explain. We're on the couch. Orry's playing with blocks on the rug. Gunther's taking notes in a pocket notebook.
"You're writing this down?"
"Memory aid." He doesn't look up. "What else?"
"He gets fussy. Clingy. Sometimes he'll just faceplant into the nearest soft surface."
"Faceplant?"
"Like this." I demonstrate with a throw pillow. Orry giggles. Copies me. Ends up with his face in the rug.
Gunther looks alarmed. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. It's his thing." I flip Orry over. Tickle his belly. He shrieks. "Also he hates socks. And he'll fight you on the sleep sack. But once he's in it, he's out in five minutes."
Gunther scribbles faster. I watch him. Neat handwriting. Bullet points. A small sketch of a sleep sack in the margin.
"You're really committed to this."
"I don't do anything halfway."
"Clearly."
He glances up. "Is that. Bad?"
"No." I soften. "It's. Appreciated. But Gunther, you don't have to be perfect. Kids are messy. Parenting is messy. You're allowed to screw up."
"I'd rather not."
"You will anyway." I lean back. "Everyone does. The trick is showing up after you mess up and trying again."
He closes the notebook. Looks at Orry. "I can do that."
"Good."
Orry yawns. Rubs his eyes. Right on cue.
"There." I point. "See?"
Gunther nods. Reverent. Like I just revealed the secrets of the universe.
Lesson three: bottles and preferences.
"He likes them warm. Not hot. Warm." I'm heating a bottle in the warmer. Gunther hovers. "Test it on your wrist. If it burns, it's too hot. If it's cold, he'll refuse it."
"Specific."
"He's a tiny tyrant. Get used to it."
The warmer beeps. I test the bottle. Perfect. Hand it to Gunther.
Orry's in his arms. Fussing. Gunther offers the bottle. Orry latches. Silence descends.
"Oh." Gunther's voice goes soft. "Oh."
I know that feeling. The first time Orry drank from a bottle I made. The rush of I did this. I'm keeping him alive.
"Yeah." I sit beside him. Close enough to supervise. Far enough to let him have the moment. "It's something."
Orry drinks. Eyes drifting shut. Gunther supports his head. Natural. Gentle.
"He trusts you," I say quietly.
"He barely knows me."
"Kids are good judges." I watch them. The matching dimples. The same little furrow between their brows. "He sees something."
Gunther doesn't answer. But his hand trembles as he adjusts Orry's position.
By eleven a.m. the apartment's cleaner. Orry's fed and changed and wearing an outfit that isn't covered in breakfast. Gunther's notebook is full.
I'm also dangerously close to admitting this isn't terrible.
"Colum's meeting." I check the time. "We should go."
"Right." Gunther stands. Hesitates. "Cecie. Thank you. For letting me. Be here."
"Don't thank me yet." I hoist the diaper bag. "You've survived one morning. We've got eighteen years ahead of us."
"I know."
"And I'm still angry."
"I know that too."
"Good." I hand him the bag. "You're carrying this. Consider it penance."
He takes it. Grins. "Fair."
Colum's office is obnoxiously nice. Leather chairs. A view of the plaza. A tray of fancy cookies that Orry immediately lunges for.
"No." I intercept. "Those aren't baby food."
"But they could be," Colum says. He's leaning against his desk. Smug. "Everything's baby food if you're brave enough."
"Please don't give my child food poisoning."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He looks at Gunther. At me. At Orry. "So. You two look. Cozy."
"We're being civil," I say flatly. "Don't read into it."
"Civil. Right." Colum grins. "And how's that going?"
Gunther sighs loudly, clearing his throat. "We're. Working through things."
"Fantastic." Colum claps his hands. "Because I have a proposal."
I tense. "What kind of proposal?"
"The kind that benefits everyone." He pulls out a folder. Slides it across the desk. "Sparkle Beauty needs accounting support. Gunther needs. Well. A reason to be around more. I'm proposing a professional partnership."
I open the folder. Skim the first page. Pause. "You're offering to cover professional bookkeeping services? For free?"
"Not free. Gunther's doing it. Pro bono. As a. Let's call it a community investment."
Gunther shifts. "Colum—"
"It's good for everyone," Colum interrupts. "Cecie gets legitimate financial support. You get hands-on time with Orry. I get to feel smug about solving problems."
I look at Gunther. "Did you know about this?"
"No." He looks genuinely surprised. "But. It's not a terrible idea."
"It's manipulative."
"It's efficient," Colum counters. "You two are dancing around each other. This gives you structure. A reason to spend time together that isn't emotionally loaded."
"Everything's emotionally loaded," I mutter.
"True." Colum shrugs. "But at least this way you're getting tax deductions out of it."
Orry babbles. Reaches for the folder. I let him gum the corner.
Gunther watches me. "You don't have to agree. If it feels like. Pressure."
"It does." I look at the folder. At Colum's smug face. At Gunther's hopeful eyes. "But. I also need the help."
"So?"
I sigh. "Fine. Professional partnership. One month trial. If it doesn't work, we stop. No hard feelings."
"Deal." Gunther offers his hand.
I shake it. Formal. Businesslike.
Colum beams. "Excellent. I'll draw up the paperwork. Gunther, you'll start Monday?"
"If Cecie's amenable."
"I'm amenable." I stand. Hoist Orry. "But we're setting ground rules. Office hours only. No personal questions during work time. And if you're late, I'm docking imaginary pay."
"Understood."
"Good." I head for the door. Pause. Look back. "And Gunther?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this morning."
His smile blooms. Soft. Real. "Anytime."
That night, after Orry's asleep and the shop's locked and I'm alone with chamomile tea and my thoughts, I let myself feel it.
The terror. The hope. The tiny, fragile thing growing that whispers maybe.
Maybe Gunther's real. Maybe he'll stay. Maybe Orry gets a father who shows up and tries and cares.
Maybe I get. Something too.
I reach for my phone. Stare at Gunther's contact info. The professional email. The work number.
Type a message.
Thanks for today. You're better at this than you think.
Hit send before I can overthink it.
His reply comes ninety seconds later.
Couldn't have done it without you. See you Monday.
I smile. Set the phone down. Sip my tea.
One month. We'll see.
Monday arrives with the subtlety of a freight train.
I open the shop at nine. Gunther shows up at nine-oh-five carrying a messenger bag and two coffees.
"Punctual."
"I set three alarms." He offers me a cup. "Vanilla oat milk latte. Colum mentioned it's your usual."
Of course Colum mentioned it.
I take the coffee. Sip. It's perfect. "Thanks."
"Where should I set up?"
I gesture to the back office. Calling it an office is generous. It's a converted storage closet with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a window that overlooks the dumpsters. But it's private. Quiet.
Gunther doesn't complain. Just nods. Unpacks his laptop. Arranges pens in a neat line.
I watch from the doorway. "You always this organized?"
"Always." He opens a spreadsheet. "Chaos stresses me out."
"Must be hard. Living in the real world."
"You have no idea."
Orry's in his playpen behind the counter. Surrounded by soft blocks and a stack of board books. He's figured out how to throw things and finds it hilarious.