I won’t let you fall
Chapter ten
I won’t let you fall
Penny
The bathwater’s gone lukewarm around me by the time I realize I’ve been staring at the same line in my journal for nearly five minutes. I shift slightly, watching the ripples push against the edge of the tub while the pen rests uselessly between my fingers.
The guest house is quiet today, but I can still hear the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the cracked bathroom window, and every now and then, the muffled bark of a dog down the street. Hopefully not Mister Gus.
I look back down at the page.
February 24th.
I’m already getting emotionally attached to a 5-year-old and a grumpy firefighter.
I stare at the sentence for a second longer, then drag a line through it hard enough to nearly tear the paper.
That’s too honest, and my pen hovers as I think about the next line already taking shape in my head.
Maybe Evan’s right.
My stomach twists immediately after I write it. I shouldn’t have folded the laundry, or reorganized his bathroom cabinet because the Band-Aids were impossible to find, or started making dinner every night like this is somehow my house too.
Heat crawls slowly up my neck, even though I’m alone. God, of course he said something.
“You don’t need to play house.”
I sink lower into the water until it laps at my collarbones, trying to wash the cringe away. The thing is, I know he didn’t mean it cruelly—but that almost makes it worse. If he’d snapped properly, if he’d been unfair on purpose, maybe I could’ve got angry instead of embarrassed.
Embarrassment feels awfully familiar.
Like the time I stood in the corner of a corporate dinner party while my stepmother smiled too brightly and introduced me as “our little helper” instead of the late Eric Easton’s daughter and shareholder.
Or the years I spent fixing scheduling disasters and smoothing over furious clients while pretending not to notice how often corners were being cut behind the scenes. Delayed inspections and cheap substitutions, and safety compliancy signed off too fast because deadlines mattered more than people.
“You’re so useful at handling these situations, Penelope.”
My stepmother’s words always sounded supportive right up until I realized being useful for these situations mostly meant absorbing the fallout quietly enough that nobody looked too closely at who was actually causing it—her.
For years, I thought that if I made myself useful enough, eventually it’d turn into belonging. But useful feels a lot like being loved until it’s not.
I stare at the steam curling off the water. Maybe that’s the problem with me. I settle in too quickly and start taking care of things without thinking about it. Fill the cracks before anyone asks me to and before I realize maybe I’m actually making the cracks worse.
The worst part is, I hadn’t even realized I was doing it here, not until Evan said it.
My throat tightens unexpectedly as I look back down at my journal. He’s right. This isn’t my house, and it isn’t my kitchen. Or my family.
Outside, a car horn beeps in the distance, and I hear the muffled sound of Gus barking once. I close my journal and set it carefully on the floor beside the bath, staring up at the ceiling while the water cools around me, then force myself to get out.
***
The school bell rings, and the doors spill open in a rush of noise and backpacks and messy hair.
I spot Elle straight away. She’s halfway down the steps, talking animatedly to a girl with a glittery scrunchie, her lunchbox swinging wildly at her side. When she sees me, her whole face lifts.
“Penny!”
She runs toward me, and I crouch instinctively to catch her before she knocks the breath out of both of us.
“Guess what!”
“Ooh, what?” I ask, brushing her hair back from her forehead.
“Mrs. Patel says we’re allowed to bring something for show-and-tell next week, and I’m bringing the pebble.”
“The special one?”
“Yes. The shiny one.” She lowers her voice as though it’s classified information. “Cora said it just looks like a normal rock, but it’s not.”
“It’s definitely not.”
“I know.” She grabs my hand and starts tugging me toward the gate. “Also, we’re learning a new dance today, and Miss Talia said we have to listen to the music with our whole bodies.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It is.” She nods gravely. “I’ve been practicing listening with my elbows.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “How are your elbows feeling about it?”
“Mm, okay, I think!” She beams up at me, and I open the car door for her to climb in, still narrating something about pliés and how some kid called Olivia keeps telling her she points her toes like “this” when they’re supposed to be like “this.”
Dance class is across town in a low brick building that smells faintly of hairspray and disinfectant. I’ve only been told the basics by Evan on what to expect, and the lobby is already filling when we walk in.
A cluster of mothers stands near the noticeboard in pristine activewear and their hair pulled into glossy ponytails. Their heads turn, and their eyes skim over me in a way that’s practiced and quick.
One of them tilts her head slightly. “You must be the new arrangement.”
Heat prickles faintly at the back of my neck, but I keep my smile in place. “Penny.”
Her gaze drops briefly to Elle’s hand in mine, then back up again. “It’s lovely that families can find hired help so quickly these days.”
There’s something in her tone that’s careful enough to pass for polite, so I don’t bite—but I want to.
“It is,” I say mildly, letting my eyes trail over her manicured nails, perfect hair, and designer handbag. “And it makes such a difference when the focus stays on the child.”
She hums with pursed lips, then turns back to the woman beside her.
“Penny.” Elle tugs on my fingers. “Can you please help me with my ballet slippers?”
“Of course.”
I kneel in front of her, fingers working at the straps and ribbons while the room buzzes around us.
“You okay?” I murmur quietly.
She nods. “That was Olivia’s mom… and Olivia said my sandwich looked like a bird today.”
“Wrong-pointing-toes Olivia?”
Elle nods.
“Well,” I say softly, “that’s because it was supposed to look like a bird.”
“She said penguins are for babies.”
I keep my hands steady, fastening the second set of ribbons.
“And what do you think?”
Elle hesitates. “I think penguins are cool.”
“I think so too,” I say, meeting her eyes. “And it would be a boring world if everyone was the same.”
She studies me for a second as I continue.
“You don’t have to stop liking something just because someone else is loud about it.”
“What if they laugh?”
“They might,” I say honestly. “Sometimes people laugh when they don’t understand something, but that doesn’t mean you change.”
And I’ll be damned if I let this little girl soften herself into something easier for others to hold.
Her shoulders square a fraction, and her eyes flick back over the group of moms. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods once, firmer this time. Braver.
The studio door opens, and Miss Talia calls the children in. A few of the girls rush past us, including one with a tight smile just like her mother’s, who gives Elle a once-over before disappearing inside. Elle squeezes my hand.
“You got this, bug,” I tell her with an encouraging nod.
She lets go first, and I watch her walk into the studio on her own, chin tipped up just slightly.
The mothers resume their quiet conversations around me as we take seats lining the foyer to wait for the end of class. One of them glances my way again, curious in a way that feels less friendly and more assessing.
I meet her gaze without flinching, smile softly, and wait for her to look away first. I’ve dealt with versions of these people my whole life, and I know exactly how they operate. The polished smiles and careful little cuts designed to leave no visible bruise or scar.
But if they think I’ll be intimidated, they’re wrong.
I’m not here to audition for their approval. I’m here because Elle deserves someone she can rely on and trust, someone who can be in the room when her dad can’t, and who sees when she’s feeling small and helps her feel tall.
Through the glass panel, I see Elle take her place at the barre, and Olivia says something to her. Elle says something back, and Olivia looks away.
And when the music starts, I watch as she moves into first position confidently, her toe pointed exactly right.
***
The rink parking lot is a disaster. There’s trucks with department decals, police cruisers backed in like they’re staging a tactical response, people already chanting as we walk past.
Elle tugs me toward the doors. “We’re late!”
Inside, the bleachers are filling fast, red and blue hoodies scattered through the crowd like opposing flags.
Elle scans the ice, then up to some seats down one side of the boards, both of us scanning for Remi. “Daddy’s gonna win.”
“That confidence feels premature,” I murmur, spotting Remi and tugging Elle along.
“It’s because firefighters are braver,” she adds.
“Did Uncle Mason tell you that?”
“Yup.”
“That’s not how sports science works,” I chuckle.
We reach Remi, and Elle slides into the seat beside her. “Hey, pretty girl, ready to watch Daddy win?”
“Elllllllie!” Max scrambles over Remi’s lap to give Elle a cuddle, and Remi and I collectively ‘aww’ at the sight.
Remi has Zela strapped to her chest, and Max is now halfway over the bench, trying to see better. I don’t know how she manages with two kids under three, but she never seems fazed.
“You made it,” she says warmly.
“We wouldn’t miss it.”
Frankie appears and plops down on my other side, clutching a hot drink and bringing it slowly to her lips. “I’ve been told I’ve gotta be here for moral support. I don’t know the rules.”
“You don’t need to,” I tell her, because I don’t either. “Just boo loudly when the PD score.”
“Oh, I can do that.”
Elle vibrates beside me, her legs swinging and scarf half-unraveling while she tries to keep track of players already out on the ice.