21. Everything ordinary, everything fragile #2
“Evan,” Penny begins carefully, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms loosely. “Do I need to know what to do if Stacey shows up? What to do if you’re not with us?”
The question lands harder than anything else today, because it’s not an accusation and it’s not some weird possessive or jealous thing. She’s asking me because it’s practical—and she loves my daughter enough to ensure she keeps her safe.
“If she comes here,” I say slowly, looking her in the eye, “you don’t let her in. You call me. Or Beck, or Herb. Or Remi. You don’t handle it alone, okay?”
“Okay.”
“She’s still Elle’s mom,” I add. “But she doesn’t get access without going through me. She can’t just turn up and expect to see her.”
“Is she… uhh, do you know if she’s…” She trails off, trying to choose her words carefully. “In treatment?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“So, she’s… active?”
I hesitate, unsure how to reply. One, because I truly don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from Stacey in over a year, but I’m also selective about what I say because of the judgment that usually comes with this.
“She’s not a bad person,” I say quietly. “She loves Elle. She just—” I stop, then try again. “She’s not well. When she’s using, she’s not thinking about consequences. She’s only thinking about the next fix.”
There’s no judgment in Penny’s face, just concern. “And Elle?”
“It’s been over a year,” I say. “Elle was only three when Stacey disappeared properly. I don’t think she remembers enough to miss her the way people expect.”
She pushes off the counter and steps closer, resting a hand against my chest, easing my thundering pulse.
“If she’s here,” she says calmly, “we deal with it.”
We.
The word settles somewhere deep.
“She doesn’t get to ruin what we have here, okay?” My hands rise from my side to bracket her hips, and her eyes lift at that, searching mine.
“No,” she says softly. “She doesn’t. This… we’re too solid.”
There’s a flicker there, something close to the edge of a confession.
It sits warm and fragile between us for a second, and all I want to do is fan the flame.
Tell her how much I fucking love her right this instant, promise her that no one will come between us, or get to Elle, or take one slice of this happy life we’ve been building.
But I don’t want those words coming out because I’m scared. I don’t want to hand them to her like a lock on the door.
I swallow. “Pen—”
“Daddy! How do you spell ‘courage’?”
The moment breaks, and the evening passes the way it always does.
Dinner stretches longer than usual, and I sit at the table and listen to Penny tell Elle about a book she picked up from the library.
Elle argues about whether penguins can have birthday parties.
Gus swipes a spoon off the table and looks offended when it clatters.
And I find myself watching Penny more than I mean to. The way she leans down to wipe a smudge off Elle’s cheek, and the way she laughs without holding it back. The way she looks at our daughter like she’s something precious.
After dishes, and while Penny manages bath time, I check the locks. Front door, back door. Sliding door. I glance out the front window when headlights sweep past. Penny notices, but she doesn’t comment.
Later, after bath time, Elle pads back out in her pajamas, her hair damp and eyes sleepy.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug.”
She twists her fingers together. “Will you be able to come watch my dance recital next month?”
The question lodges in my throat, and I clear it gently.
“I don’t know,” I tell her carefully. “If I’m not working, we’ll figure it out.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied enough because she’s used to the unknown when it comes to my job, and she knows if I can’t make it, others will. Herb and Leah. Remi. Mrs Potts.
“Okay.” She leans in and hugs me tight. “I bet Penny can make it.”
My throat tightens again.
“Me too.”
When the house finally settles, and Elle’s asleep, Penny curls into me in bed like she always does, but she doesn’t fall asleep straight away.
I feel it in the way her breathing doesn’t quite settle, in the way her fingers trace idle patterns against my skin like her mind’s still turning over something she hasn’t said yet.
The room is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp bleeding faintly through the curtains.
“You’re still awake,” she murmurs.
“So are you.”
A small huff of a laugh leaves her, and she shifts, rolling onto her back, then turns her head toward me.
“Is this the part where you tell me everything’s fine?”
“No,” I say honestly. “This is the part where I tell you I don’t know yet.”
She studies me in the dim light. I can feel it more than I can see it.
“Okay,” she says softly.
I reach for her again without thinking, my hand finding her waist and pulling her closer until she fits against me the way she always does. She comes easily, because she knows she belongs there as much as I do.
“Hey,” she says, hand sliding up my chest, fingers brushing over my collarbone before settling flat over my heart. “We’re okay.”
My hand tightens slightly at her hip, and I let out a slow breath.
“You’re very calm about this.”
“I’m choosing to be,” she replies. “There’s a difference.”
That pulls a soft laugh out of me. “Right.”
Her thumb shifts against me in slow, absent circles.
“You don’t have to carry this on your own, Evan,” she adds after a second. “Whatever this turns into.”
I swallow.
“I’m used to it.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “That doesn’t mean you have to stay used to it.”
Those words press right up against the thing I’ve been holding back all day. All week. The month. Longer than that.
“Penny…”
Her name sits heavy in my mouth, and she stills slightly under my arms.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
I almost say it. It’s right fucking there, close enough that I can feel it. But she’s holding me together with both hands, and I don’t want to turn the words into something she has to catch.
So instead, my palm slides up her side, fingers brushing along her ribs before settling at her back, pulling her in tighter.
“You’re here,” I say instead.
Her breath catches, just slightly. “I am.”
I close my eyes and swallow. “And you’ll stay,” I add quietly.
There’s a pause, and then she shifts closer, her leg sliding between mine, her arm wrapping around me to anchor herself there.
“I’m not going anywhere, Prince,” she whispers. “Promise.”
Promise.
My face presses into her hair, breathing her in, and I lie there listening to her breaths even out. To the tick of a pipe in the wall, and the soft sound of Gus snoring on his bed.
Everything ordinary, everything fragile.
I think about how quickly something solid can feel threatened. How much of my life is built around these two beautiful girls sleeping under this roof. One curled in her bed with penguin pajamas and tangled hair. The other tucked against my chest like she was always meant to be there.
And I think about how Penny told me, once upon a time, that she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep.
She shifts, and I hold onto her a little tighter as she murmurs and presses back against me without waking, then I finally close my eyes.
I haven’t said it, but I know it.
I know it the same way I know fire burns hot and penguins choose one penguin for life.
I’m in love with Penny Easton.