Chapter 9 #2
A block sails past my head. Lands in a display of lip gloss.
"Orry. No."
He giggles. Throws another one.
I retrieve the blocks. Reset the display. Make a mental note to move the playpen.
Gunther appears. Glasses slightly crooked. "Need help?"
"You're supposed to be doing bookkeeping."
"I can multitask." He crouches by the playpen. "Hey, buddy. We don't throw things at Mom, okay?"
Orry beams. Hands him a block.
Gunther takes it. Examines it like it's precious. "Thank you."
"He's bribing you."
"It's working."
I snort. Return to the counter as the door chimes.
First customer of the day: yoga mom with a toddler in tow. She needs concealer. Her kid needs to touch everything.
I help her test shades while keeping one eye on the toddler. And Orry. And Gunther, who's now stacking blocks in perfect towers for Orry to demolish.
"Your husband's good with kids," yoga mom says.
"He's not my husband."
"Oh." She looks intrigued. "Boyfriend?"
"Complicated."
"Aren't they all." She picks a shade. Pays. Leaves with a knowing smile.
I make a note to clarify relationship status. Before the whole plaza thinks we're married.
Lunchtime. I shut down the shop for thirty minutes. Heat up leftovers in the microwave tucked beside the filing cabinet.
Gunther eats a sad desk salad. I offer him half my sandwich.
"You don't have to."
"You've been working for three hours. And that salad looks like punishment."
He eyes the sandwich. Turkey, avocado, sprouts. Homemade bread. "You made this?"
"Baking calms me down." I push the plate closer. "Eat. Before I change my mind."
He takes half. Bites. Closes his eyes. "This is incredible."
"It's a sandwich."
"It's art."
I laugh. Can't help it. "You're easy to impress."
"Only when it comes to food and spreadsheets."
Orry's in his high chair. Gumming a rice cracker. Watching us like we're dinner theater.
Gunther notices. Smiles. That damned dimple appears.
Orry mirrors it. Cracker crumbs everywhere.
"They really do look alike," I murmur.
"Yeah." Gunther's voice goes soft. "They do."
We sit in comfortable silence. Eating. Watching Orry destroy his cracker.
It feels. Normal. Domestic.
Don't get used to this.
Afternoon rush. Three teenagers wanting glitter eyeliner. A drag queen looking for stage-worthy lashes. An older woman who needs help matching foundation after a summer tan.
I juggle them all. Gunther stays in the back. Occasionally he mutters at his laptop. Once I hear him say "Why would anyone organize receipts like this?"
I grin. My filing system is creative. AKA nonexistent.
Between customers I check on Orry. He's napping in the pack-n-play I keep in the office. Gunther's moved his laptop to the floor. Working cross-legged. Glancing at Orry every few minutes.
"You know he's fine, right?"
Gunther startles. "I know. I just. Want to make sure."
"He's asleep. Not plotting an escape."
"You never know."
I lean against the doorframe. Watch him work. The furrow between his brows. The way he chews his bottom lip when he's concentrating.
He's attractive. In a nerdy, unexpected way.
Stop noticing that.
"How bad is it?" I ask. "The books."
"Salvageable." He doesn't look up. "But you need a real system. And maybe a separate business account."
"I have a business account."
"You have a personal account you sometimes use for business."
"Semantics."
"Cecie." He looks up. Patient. "I'm not judging. But if you want to grow, you need structure."
"I have structure."
"You have organized chaos."
"Same thing."
He smiles. "It's really not."
I should be annoyed. Defensive. But he's right. And he's saying it without condescension. Just. Facts.
"Fine. Set up a system. Teach me. I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking."
Four p.m. The shop's quiet. I'm restocking lipstick. Gunther's explaining expense categories.
"So. Office supplies. Inventory. Marketing. Utilities." He taps the screen. "Keep them separate. It'll make tax season easier."
"Tax season's a nightmare anyway."
"Doesn't have to be."
I snort. "Spoken like someone who enjoys numbers."
"I do enjoy numbers." He adjusts his glasses. "They make sense. Follow rules. Unlike people."
"People are more interesting."
"People are unpredictable."
"That's what makes them interesting."
He considers this. "Fair point."
Orry wakes up. Fusses. I move to get him but Gunther's already there. Scooping him up. Bouncing gently.
"Hey, buddy. Good nap?"
Orry yawns. Rubs his face against Gunther's shoulder.
My chest tightens. He fits there. Like he's supposed to.
Gunther looks at me. "Bottle?"
"Yeah. I'll grab it."
I prep the bottle. Warm it. Test it. Hand it over. Gunther settles into the desk chair. Feeds Orry. Natural. Easy. I watch. Tell myself it's just supervision. Not. Anything else.
"You're good at this," I say quietly.
He glances up. Surprised. "You think so?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
"I'm just. Trying. I don't know what I'm doing half the time."
"None of us do." I sit on the edge of the desk. "But you show up. You try. That's. More than a lot of people."
His expression softens. "I want to be here."
"I know."
We hold eye contact. The air charges with a good kind of heaviness.
I look away first. Clear my throat. "I should. Get back to work."
"Right. Yeah."
But neither of us moves.
Five-thirty. I flip the sign to closed. Lock the door. Exhale. Gunther's packing up. Orry's on a blanket. Playing with measuring spoons.
"Long day," Gunther says.
"Every day's long." I start tidying the counter. "But it's mine. That helps."
"I get that."
"Do you?" My eyes shift to him. "You work for Colum. That's different."
"True. But I like the work. And Colum's good in his way."
"He's a meddler." My eyes roll.
"That too." Gunther smiles. "But he means well."
"Meaning well doesn't excuse manipulation." I sigh.
"No. But it makes it easier to forgive."
I think about that. About Colum's proposal. This whole arrangement. "You think he set this up just to push us together?"
Gunther pauses. "Probably. But that doesn't mean it's a bad idea."
"You're okay with being manipulated?"
"I'm okay with spending time with my son." He says it simply. Honestly. "If Colum's scheming gets me that, I'll take it."
My son. He said it. Out loud. Like it's fact.
I swallow hard. "We still don't know for sure."
"I know." His smile slowly stretches across his face.. "But Cecie. Look at him. Look at me. You know."
I do. God help me, I do. "A test would confirm it."
"Do you want one?" His brow cocks endearingly.
I hesitate. "Do you?"
"I want whatever makes you comfortable."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." He steps closer. Careful. "I'm not going to demand proof. Or rights. Or anything you're not ready to give. I just. Want to be here. However you'll let me."
My throat tightens. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We'll figure it out. As we go."
Relief floods his face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." I turn back to the counter. Blink hard. "You haven't seen me at my worst."
"I'm not going anywhere."
We'll see.
Six p.m. Gunther's carrying boxes to my car. I'm wrangling Orry and the diaper bag.
We load everything. Orry babbles in his car seat. Gunther closes the trunk.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.
"If you're sure." I peer at him, my brow lifts.
"I'm sure." He smiles and nods, his confidence overwhelming me.
"Gunther." I face him. Serious. "This. arrangement. It's temporary. Until we figure things out."
"I know."
"And I'm not. Ready. For anything beyond co-parenting."
"I understand."
"Good." I open the driver's door. Pause. "But. Thank you. For today. You were. Helpful."
His smile could power the whole plaza. "Anytime."
I drive home. Orry falls asleep before we hit the first stoplight. Gunther stays on my mind. His careful hands. His terrible salad. The way he looked at Orry like he hung the moon.
This is dangerous. Letting him in. Trusting him.
That night, after Orry's in bed and the dishes are done and I'm too wired to sleep, I find myself in the nursery.
There's a box on the top shelf of the closet. Stuff from when I was pregnant. Ultrasound photos. A hospital bracelet. A journal I barely wrote in.
I pull it down. Sit on the floor. Flip through pages. There. Halfway through. A list of names.
Boys: Orry, Jasper, Felix, Theo, Ridge... Ridge is scribbled out. Hard. Angry pen strokes. I remember writing it. Three a.m., seven months pregnant, crying because I was alone and scared and so angry at the man who left me with nothing but glitter and a dimpled smile.
I'd written Ridge. Then crossed it out. Chose Orry instead. Something that was just mine.
The journal's still open when I hear a knock. I freeze. It's late. Who—
My phone vibrates . Text from Gunther.
Sorry. I know it's late. I left my notebook in the office. Can I grab it tomorrow or...
I text back. I'm still up. Come by if you want.
Three minutes later he's at my door. Apologetic. Rumpled.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."
"It's fine. Come in."
He follows me upstairs. I point to the office. "It's probably on the desk."
He finds it. Tucks it into his bag. Notices the open nursery door.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just. Going through old stuff."
He hesitates. "Can I?"
I shrug. "Sure."
He steps into the nursery. Looks around. The crib. The changing table. The shelf of books. His gaze lands on the journal. On the floor. Open. I should close it. Hide it. But I don't. He crouches. Reads the list. His finger touches the scribbled-out name.
"Ridge."
I go still.
He looks up. Eyes wide. "You named him after. Me?"
"I didn't name him Ridge."
"But you thought about it."
"For five minutes." My voice cracks. "Before I remembered you were a stranger who disappeared."
"Cecie—"
"I was so angry." The words spill out. "You left. No name. No number. Nothing. And I was pregnant and terrified and I wanted. Something. Some piece of you for him. So I wrote it down. Then I crossed it out. Because you didn't deserve it."
He's quiet. Staring at the page.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"I know."
"I didn't know. If I'd known—"
"You would've what? Stayed? You didn't even know my real name."
"I would've tried." He stands. Faces me. "I would've tried, Cecie. I swear."
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
But belief is terrifying.
"It doesn't matter now."
"It does." He steps closer. Close enough I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. "It matters because I'm here. Now. And I'm not leaving. Not unless you tell me to."
"Gunther—"
"I know you don't trust me. I know I have to earn it. But please. Let me try."
His hand's still on the journal. On the name I scribbled out.
I reach out. Touch his wrist.
He freezes.
"You're really staying?"
"I'm really staying." There's that confident smile, his absolute assured expression.
"Even when it's hard?" I'm digging now.
"Especially then."
I search his face. Looking for lies. Doubt. Anything that says he'll run. All I see is hope.
"Okay," I breathe.
"Okay?"
"Okay. We'll. Try."
His smile breaks like dawn. "Thank you."
We stand there. Hands touching. The scribbled name between us.