Chapter 13 #3
“I know,” I say with exaggerated sympathy, “it takes a while to get over the horror of marrying me, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t be a dick.” She rolls her eyes. “One day you’re telling me you never want to see me again, fourteen years pass, and the next time I see you, you’re telling me we’re married. Sorry if I’m not exactly doing cartwheels at this progression of events.”
I skip right over justifying how I left things with us way back when.
The longer I can go without having to explain that night, the better.
“Have you at least given our situation some thought?” I have to ask—not because Tom called earlier, but because it’s been eating away at me.
It’s the giant anvil hanging over my head at all times, and it’s hard to keep pretending that I’m not constantly thinking about it.
“I have,” she says, and rests her head on the back cushions of the chair.
She’s looking up at the ceiling, not at me, which makes it hard to read her.
“And I’m trying to figure out a way to help you that doesn’t involve us lying about being married, having lived together, all that.
There has to be another way for you to adopt Stella. ”
“Tom’s read through the laws pretty closely. New York only allows US citizens to adopt children who are US citizens.”
“I know the US naturalization process is really complicated. I’m sure Tom’s great, but maybe we should talk to an immigration lawyer instead?”
Even though it’s not actually possible and totally cliché, it feels like my heart skips a beat. “We?”
“Well,” she hedges, “yeah. We.”
I nod and hold in the smile that’s trying desperately to claw its way out of me.
“Okay. I’ll ask Tom for a recommendation.”
“Speaking of recommendations,” she says, “any progress on a new nanny?”
“Yeah, the agency sent over some bios earlier today. Want to see them?”
“Obviously.”
“You don’t trust me after Irina, huh?”
“Should I?”
“I want to do right by Stella,” I assure her.
“Then you need to find someone who’s going to love and support her, not some tyrant on a power trip.”
I both hate that she’s right and love that she understands what Stella needs and is willing to let me know when I’ve fallen short. I pull up the bios on my phone and move onto the couch cushion next to her, keeping enough distance that we’re not touching but that she can see my phone.
I reach across my body with the device so she can take it and look through the options, but instead she leans over, resting her head on my shoulder and looking down at the phone.
I hold my breath, trying not to breathe in her scent, not to notice how warm her body is where it’s pushed up against mine, and definitely trying to forget about the fact that from this angle I can see right down her shirt and she doesn’t seem to be wearing a bra.
I shift to rest my free hand under the arm that’s holding out the phone.
Hopefully, she thinks I’m supporting my arm instead of trying to hide the bulge that’s growing in my pants as I soak in her proximity, her smell, and her amazing body.
She swipes through the bios, reading each resumé carefully and analyzing each person’s photo, then returns to a few for a second look.
I try not to be the creep checking her out while she’s focused on important details regarding my kid, but I can’t help it.
I’ve never been able to stop my reaction to Petra.
She tells me the three that would be her top choices, justifying each with statements like “she’s nannied for an only child before,” or “she really seems to love kids,” or “I like her approach to teaching self-discipline.”
“I’ll follow up with the agency and see if we can get interviews with them . . . assuming you want to be part of that?”
“Of course I do,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say, resting my cheek on her head for a brief moment.
She burrows her head deeper into my shoulder, a shared armless hug that makes it feel like we’re progressing into trusting each other again. Then she stands abruptly. “I’m headed to bed.”
The disappointment flows through me like a heavy metal, making me feel lethargic and half dead. Then in response, my adrenaline surges. I want to fight to keep her here in this room with me. Let her go. You’re playing a dangerous game.
I know that in the end, Petra will leave.
I know she has a life she loves and wants to get back to.
I know that keeping her here with me and Stella, even in the short-term, isn’t fair to her.
It’s like caging an eagle. She’s meant to be soaring somewhere else, not tied down here.
And hoping for anything else is just setting myself up for disappointment.
More importantly, the longer Petra stays, the more likely it is that Stella will be heartbroken when she leaves.
That’ll make two of us. So I vow to keep Petra at a distance to protect both Stella and myself from the inevitable grief of losing her again.
“Goodnight,” I say, picking up my book off the coffee table. I refuse to look at her as she leaves, afraid that she’ll see what I’m feeling written plainly across my face.