Chapter 8
Noah
The last week has gone incredibly well.
I didn't get to see Rika much, but the kids and I are settling into a comfortable routine, and I'm enjoying this new position tremendously.
Heading up to Rika's house from the basement apartment around six, I take care of the kids in the morning until it's time to drop them off at school.
Then I head over to work at the Mindful Pixie yoga studio, and I work there for Belinda until it's time to pick up the kids after school.
I drive the kids to their after-school activities, then come home to cook and clean until Rika gets home from work.
Works perfectly.
Right now, it’s Saturday night and we're at Zoe's dance recital.
I'm sitting in the auditorium at Saltford Bay's community center, breathing in the smell of decades of dust and community theater dreams. Rika is on my left, her hand resting on her knee, her wings pulled tight against her back.
She's been tense all day, ever since she told Zoe last night that Mitchell wasn't coming.
That conversation didn't go well. Zoe locked herself in her room for two hours. When she finally came out, her eyes were red but her jaw was set in that stubborn way teenagers have when they’re hurt but can’t express it. She didn't say a word about her father. She just asked what was for dinner.
It broke my heart a little. So when Zoe asked me if I wanted to have her dad’s ticket to the recital, I couldn’t say no. That girl can’t take any more rejection. Even if I’m a poor substitute for her father, I’m glad to be there for her.
Matthew is tucked against my other side like a warm, fidgeting barnacle. He's working his way through a juice box with the kind of intense concentration only a seven-year-old can muster, occasionally offering me a pretzel from his crinkly bag.
"Thanks, buddy," I whisper, accepting a pretzel even though I'm not hungry.
The stage floods with light, and a line of nervous dancers in pale pink and lavender tutus takes their positions. I've been here for over half an hour already, watching the younger classes stumble through their numbers with varying degrees of success.
Then Zoe walks onstage.
She looks different up there. Her sapphire-blue hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her wings folded tight against her back and shimmering under the stage lights like polished gemstones.
She holds herself with a grace and confidence I haven't seen in her before, her shoulders back, chin high, feet positioned in perfect first position.
She also looks absolutely terrified.
I can see it in the tension around her mouth, the way her hands tremble slightly before she clasps them together. My chest tightens with something protective and proud all at once.
"That's Zoe!" Matthew announces loudly, pointing at the stage.
"Shh," I say gently, ruffling his green hair. "Let's watch."
The music starts, something sweeping that I don't recognize but sounds uplifting, and the dancers begin to move.
Zoe is third from the left, and even among a group of talented kids, she stands out.
Her movements are precise and graceful, each arabesque and pirouette executed with the kind of discipline that comes from hours of practice.
The group number finishes strong, the dancers holding their final pose as the music swells and cuts. The audience erupts into applause, and I clap louder than anyone, my hands stinging with the force of it.
Zoe's eyes scan the auditorium as she exits the stage. I see her gaze sweep past us, searching for something, someone, who isn't there. Then her eyes land on me and Rika, and her lips curve in the smallest smile.
That smile hits me square in the chest.
Matthew bounces in his seat beside me. "She was so good!"
"She really was."
The next few numbers blur together, more dancers, more scattered applause. I glance at Rika and see her hands are clasped tight in her lap, her knuckles white. She's dreading what comes next. So am I.
Onstage, the dance teacher, a tall, elegant elf woman with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, takes the microphone.
"Alright, everyone," she says, her voice crisp and authoritative. "We're moving into the Parent Partner segment now. Featured dancers, please line up stage left. Parents, when I call your dancer's name, please come down to the stage."
Rika goes rigid beside me. I glance at her and see all the color drain from her face.
"I have to get up there," she whispers, her voice tight. "It's a father-daughter dance, and she needs a parent to lift her up. I'll do my best."
What? No one told me about this. There's no way Rika can physically manage the lifts required for this segment. She knows it. I know it. And worse, Zoe knows it.
Onstage, fathers start making their way down the aisles. A broad-shouldered orc in a business suit. A wiry human man with dark jeans and glasses. A troll in mechanic's overalls who moves like he wants to be anywhere but onstage.
I watch Zoe's face as she lines up with the other featured dancers. She's watching the other girls' fathers take their places, and even from here I can see her fighting to keep her expression neutral. Her wings droop, the tips nearly brushing the stage floor.
She looks so small up there. So alone.
Rika begins to rise from her seat, clearly setting herself up for failure.
"I've got this," I say, standing.
Rika looks up at me, her eyes wide. "Noah, you don't have to—"
"I want to."
I'm already heading down the aisle. The dance teacher looks surprised when she sees me approaching.
"Oh. You're Zoe's—?"
"I'm filling in." I pause, not sure what to call myself, then decide on the truth. "I'm the nanny."
Ms. Langford's expression softens. "Of course. Just follow the other dads' lead. It's very simple."
Simple. Right.
I climb the steps onto the stage, and the lights hit me like a wall of heat. Jesus, no wonder the dancers are sweating. I can barely see the audience beyond the glare.
Zoe meets me in the wings, her expression a mixture of shock and something that looks dangerously close to hope.
"Noah?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "What are you doing?"
I grin at her. "What does it look like? Let's nail this."
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her eyes go shiny, and she blinks rapidly, looking away.
"You don't have to do this," she says quietly.
"I want to."
She looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. The guarded wariness she usually wears like armor cracks, just a little, and underneath I see the scared kid who just wants someone to show up for her.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Thank me after we nail this lift. If I drop you, you're allowed to hate me forever."
That startles a laugh out of her. A real one, bright and surprised. One I want to hear more often from her.
"Deal," she whispers.
Ms. Langford gives us quick instructions: walk across the stage together, Zoe will do a pirouette, I lift her above my head, put her down, then exit stage left while she finishes her solo variation.
It's simple, but my heart is pounding like I'm about to compete in the goddamn Olympics.
The music starts, and I offer Zoe my arm.
She takes it, her small hand resting lightly on my forearm, and we walk across the stage together.
We reach center stage, and Zoe releases my arm.
She executes a flawless pirouette, her wings flaring slightly for balance, and then she's in position for the lift.
I step behind her, hands on her waist, and lift her smoothly above my head. She extends her arms in a graceful arc, her wings shimmering under the lights, and holds the pose for a count of three.
I lower her carefully, and she lands on her toes with perfect control.
From the audience, I hear Rika's voice, clear and bright. "That's my girl!"
Zoe's face lights up. A real smile breaks across her face—not the guarded half smile she usually offers, but something radiant and unrestrained. I exit stage left as instructed, my heart still racing, and I watch from the wings as Zoe begins her solo.
She's transcendent.
She dances like she's flying, like gravity doesn't apply to her, like nothing in the world can hold her down. Every movement is precise and powerful, but there's joy in it too—a freedom I haven't seen in her before.
When her solo ends and she hits her final pose, the audience erupts. The applause is thunderous, echoing off the walls of the community center, and I find myself grinning like an idiot.
I make my way back to my seat, and the moment I sit down, Rika grabs my forearm. Her fingers are warm and firm, and she turns to me with a smile so big and bright and grateful it knocks the air out of my lungs. Her eyes are wet with tears she's not bothering to hide.
"Thank you," she mouths, squeezing my arm. "Thank you."
I'd do this a thousand times over if it meant Rika would ever look at me like that again.
I can't speak. Can't think. Can only stare at her and try to memorize the way she's looking at me, like I've done something extraordinary.
Matthew climbs into my lap without warning, wrapping his small arms around my neck and pressing his face against my shoulder.
"You were so cool, Noah," he whispers.
Rika's hand is still on my arm. Her thumb brushes against my skin, just once, just barely, but it feels like a thousand volts just went through my system.
I'm acutely aware of every point of contact: Rika's hand on my forearm, the faint brush of her wing against my shoulder.
This is dangerous territory. I know it is.
But I can't seem to make myself care.
"You didn't have to do that," Rika says quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
I meet her eyes, those sharp, beautiful, exhausted blue eyes, and I say the only thing I can.
"Yeah, I did."
The moment stretches, charged and fragile. Rika's lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, but then Matthew shifts in my lap and the spell breaks.
She pulls her hand back slowly, her cheeks flushing pink, and turns her attention back to the stage.
But I notice she doesn't move away. If anything, she leans slightly into my space, her wings brushing my shoulders.
The rest of the recital passes in a blur.
I barely register the other dances, too focused on the feeling of Rika beside me.
When the show finally ends and families start gathering their things, Zoe appears beside us, still in her costume.
Her face is flushed with exertion and triumph, and her smile is the brightest I've seen on her.
"You were amazing out there," Rika tells her, pulling her into a fierce hug.
Rika's eyes well up with tears again, and Zoe hugs her back just as fiercely. I stand there holding Matthew's hand, watching this beautiful scene unfold.
And I think, I want to be part of this.
And it's a problem.
Because Rika Everdeen is my boss. Because this placement is temporary. But as Rika looks up at me over Zoe's head with eyes bright with unshed tears, I realize it's already too late.
I'm not falling anymore.
I've already fallen.
And I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do about it.