Chapter 9
That Maybe—Just Maybe
Coleman
Did Paige make it to Payton’s room yet? Her voice had been soft. Casual. But the question landed like a blow to the ribs.
How the hell did she already notice that?
Two days. It’s been two damn days. And somehow, Remi’s already seeing things most people never even glance at. I sit on the edge of the couch, staring at the hallway like maybe the answer will float back to me.
That little escape move Paige pulls every night… I’ve never talked about it. Never explained the way she sneaks out of her own room and slides beneath the covers with her sister like she can’t sleep unless Payton’s heart is beating within arm’s reach.
Since that night Paige has stopped trying to sleep alone. And Payton lets her. No complaints. No teasing. Like she gets it.
Like they both do.
I wait a little longer than usual before I move. Give them time. Give Remi time. Even though part of me wants to check her room first. Eventually, I rise and make my way down the hall.
I peek in on the girls. Just like always.
And sure enough—there they are. Paige curled beside her sister, one arm tossed across Payton like she’s anchoring herself. Payton’s still awake, eyes tracking me in the dark.
“She’s home,” I whisper.
She nods once. Small. Soft. “She stopped and said hi. Let me know she was back.” It was just Payton’s small voice but it did another number on my heart. Remi cared enough to tell her. To let my girls know that she was back.
I close the door quietly and turn toward the guest room—Remi’s room.
The door is cracked.
Barely. A sliver of soft light peeks through from her bathroom. I am surprised she is leaving her door open. Did I not notice it open before? She must’ve forgotten to shut it.
Or maybe she left it open for them. Another thing she didn’t need to be told.
I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I push the door open just enough to see her.
Remi is curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek.
Her hair is fanned out across the pillow in messy waves, all rich and warm like the color of my coffee every damn morning.
I stare at it longer than I should, watching the way the strands glint in the light like caramel and chestnut and chaos.
And for a split second—a breath I don’t even let myself fully take—I wonder what that hair would look like spread across my pillows. Across my chest. Tangling in my fingers.
Jesus Christ.
I shut my eyes and step back like I’ve been burned. She’s here for the girls. That’s it. And in two damn days, she’s already made them laugh. Already made them curious again. They look at her. They talk to her.
They see her. And somehow, in that same short window, she’s managing to see them right back. She isn’t here for me. She shouldn’t be.
She’s too loud.
Too colorful.
Too young.
She talks in circles and sings while she cooks and insists that vinyl records have better sound quality and has more life in her than I’ve felt in my entire damn chest in years.
She’s everything I don’t know how to handle.
Everything I don’t think I deserve.
And yet—
After I shower, I find myself leaning over the bathroom sink, palms flat on the porcelain, water dripping down my chest, my eyes locked on my own reflection.
And I can’t stop the thought from sliding in.
That maybe—just maybe— I need a little more loud in my life.
It’s the smell that hits me first. Sweet, warm, familiar. Waffles. But not from a box. Real ones.
The kind I haven’t tasted in years.
I round the corner into the kitchen, prepared to give Remi grief again—ready to roll my eyes at her rebellion against a rule she clearly has no intention of following.
But the words catch in my throat when I see them. Payton’s standing on a stool, her sleeves rolled up, chocolate smudged on her wrist and a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Remi is beside her. Talking softly. Walking her through the steps.
“You’ve got the main character drawn so well,” Remi is saying, pointing to a page in Payton’s sketchbook that’s propped open beside the mixing bowl. “But I think we need to know more about her—like where she’s from. What her favorite breakfast is.”
“Why?” Payton asks, genuinely curious.
“Because even heroes need waffles,” Remi says with a wink. “It gives them something worth fighting for.”
Payton actually giggles. And I swear to God, something rewires in my brain.
Because this—this tiny moment right here—is something no one has ever done with my daughter.
Not Stella. Not any of the three nannies before her. No one’s ever been here for breakfast. No one’s cared to be.
Remi leans in, brushing a little flour off Payton’s nose, and then says, “Okay. Once the waffles are done, you get to pick what we do today. Anything you want.”
Payton freezes, like she doesn’t understand the question.
“Wait,” she says slowly. “Like… I get to pick?”
“Yep.” Remi grins. “Today’s your day. Tomorrow is Paige’s. Seems fair.”
There’s a silence. Then Payton mumbles, “We leave for… for Stella’s after that.”
I flinch at the name, even though it’s not directed at me. Remi pauses, picking up on it too.
She turns to Payton gently. “Is that why you called her Stella just now? Instead of Mom?”
Payton nods. “She said we should. Said calling her ‘Mom’ makes her sound old.”
The way she says it is hollow. Like she’s just parroting what she’s been told. Like she doesn’t understand, just knows it’s another way she’s not allowed to be a kid around the woman who gave birth to her.
“I don’t want to go this weekend,” Payton whispers. “Not even a little bit.”
My hand tightens on the doorway trim.
Just as Remi opens her mouth to respond, I step in, making sure my voice is casual. Steady.
“Smells like mutiny in here.”
Remi glances up, instantly reading the shift in my eyes—even though I try to hide it.
“Your ‘no cooking’ rule is officially defunct,” she says as she flips a waffle onto a plate.
“Is that so?”
“Very much so.”
I cross my arms. “Gonna have to rewrite the handbook, then.”
“You have a handbook?” Remi smirks, grabbing another bowl and letting Payton start cracking eggs into it.
“Had. Apparently, someone set it on fire.”
Payton’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh, and I tuck the sound away like it’s something precious.
Then I look at her, more serious now. “So. What’s the plan today, little bug? I’ve got work, but I want to know what I’m missing out on.”
Payton shrugs, trying to act cool. “Remi said I get to pick.”
“Did she now?” I glance at Remi, who lifts a brow like she dares me to argue.
“I might want to go to the art store,” Payton says quietly. “Or maybe the library.”
Remi shoots me a look that dares me to say no.
I don’t.
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “You deserve a good day.”
I don’t say the rest of what I’m thinking. That it breaks me a little more each time I realize I can’t give them that. That the only reason she’s smiling right now is because Remi is in this house.
That maybe—just maybe—this loud, stubborn, sunshine-wrapped girl is exactly what my girls have needed all along.