Alex #2
It was only four days ago, and I can see Josie’s dark hair down from its usual ponytail and her stunning hazel eyes.
The rows of vines. Late light. Her voice when she talked about the vineyard as though she belonged to it, even while resisting what that belonging has required of her.
The quiet confidence in her that has nothing to do with trying to impress anyone.
I turn the page and keep reading, though Eloise’s attention has clearly left the horse and wandered somewhere else.
“Do farms smell bad?” she asks.
“Some do.”
She wrinkles her nose as if she can already imagine it. She studies the page again, thinking her way through the idea. “Do farms always have animals?”
“No, some just have crops and plants.”
“Like vineyards?”
My eyes widen, but I don’t think she notices. Well, yes, actually. I could explain the difference. Grapes instead of livestock, rows instead of barns. Redirect her back to the horse that hates mud. Instead I hear myself say, “Yes, but not in the way you think.”
She leans back against my arm, considering that. “We should go sometime.”
“Maybe someday.”
She nestles closer as I keep reading, but the shift inside me is already occurring. Josie is back in my head now, not as a passing thought this time but as a possibility rubbing against the edges of the life I’ve worked so hard to make stable.
That is the real calculation. Not whether I want to see her. I do. Not whether she is interesting. She is. Not whether another dinner would be pleasant. It would.
The problem is that nothing involving adults stays neatly adult, if it continues long enough. At some point, if it becomes real, it stops existing separately from the rest of my life and starts moving toward the center of it, toward this house, this routine, and inevitably toward Eloise.
I finish the story and close the book. She studies the cover. Her eyelids are heavier now.
“Time for bed,” I say quietly.
She groans on principle, but then slides off the couch and holds up her arms for the brief, unnecessary lift she still asks for some nights.
I pick her up anyway. She is getting too long for this, all elbows, but I carry her upstairs because someday she’ll stop asking and I will miss it more than I expect.
Her room is dim, except for the lamp on the dresser. I set her on the bed and pull back the covers while she climbs under them with the solemnity of a creature preparing for hibernation.
“Are you working late tomorrow?” she asks.
“I shouldn’t be.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know. Sometimes things happen. But I’m not on call, so chances are I’ll be home at the regular time.”
She looks at me for a moment. “You were still here for breakfast.”
“That counts for something.”
“It counts for breakfast.”
I laugh softly and sit on the edge of the bed. “Good point.”
Eloise rolls onto her side and reaches for the Hello Kitty near her pillow, tucking it under her arm like she always does. She rubs the worn ear between her fingers for a moment. “Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
She stares up at the ceiling for a second, thinking, the animal pressed against her cheek. “I like when it’s just regular.”
The words are simple enough that I almost miss the weight of them. “Regular how?”
She lifts one hand and makes a vague circle in the air, like she’s trying to draw the whole house at once. “Like this. School and Zara and dinner and books.” Her hand drops back to the blanket. “Not when everyone comes over and there’s too much going on.”
I smooth a hand over her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “I like regular too.”
“Good.”
Her eyes drift closed for a moment. I stand, and one eye opens again.
“Did your hospital help people today?”
“Yes.”
She nods slightly against the pillow. “Did you eat lunch?”
“Eventually.”
Another pause. Her fingers keep worrying Kitty’s ear.
I lean down and kiss her forehead, pulling the blanket a little higher over her shoulder. “Go to sleep, detective.”
She smiles, already halfway gone. “’Night, Daddy.”
“’Night.”
I switch off the lamp and leave the hallway light on, just as I always do.
Downstairs, I move through the kitchen automatically, checking the lock on the back door, setting the coffee maker for the morning, putting Eloise’s signed reading log back into her backpack.
When everything is in place, I stand at the counter.
This is why I’m careful—in all aspects of my life.
Not because I’m afraid of wanting something, but because wanting something isn’t the only issue when Eloise is part of the equation.
Caution makes sense. It just isn’t the whole truth.
The truth is that I want to see Josie again, just like I told her. I want a conversation that isn’t cut short by timing or circumstance. I want to know whether the kiss was simply an end to a good night or the beginning of something I’ve been pretending not to notice.
My phone sits on the counter beside my keys. I pick it up before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Thanks again for the vineyard tour. How’s your week going?
I set the phone face down on the counter. Nothing in the house has changed, but I’ve made a decision.
I turn off the kitchen light and head upstairs, aware that wanting a woman is simple. Making space for someone new in a life that already belongs to a child is not.
But I’ve decided to see what happens anyway.