Chapter 23 #2
“You can French braid your own hair?” she asks.
“Absolutely. That’s how I learned. Do you have a bobble?” I ask.
“A bobble?” Willow says in a funny voice. “What’s a bobble?”
“To fix the end,” I say. “Is bobble a British term?” I ask, amused. I’ve never thought about it.
“You’ll be surprised which words are different,” Deacon says.
The nanny hands Deacon a brush and a bobble, and he sighs, almost accepting defeat before we’ve even started.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying to reassure him. “Willow, you sit here on this stool,” I say, pulling a stool from under the counter.
Deacon’s expression suggests he’s about to dive into certain death.
I laugh and nod at Willow’s hair. “Just brush it through first. Get all the tangles out.”
He works diligently, making sure he’s gentle so Willow doesn’t yelp. Her hair is dark blonde with beautiful waves.
“Good,” I say. “I want you to part the hair in horizontal sections about three centimeters apart starting from the top.” I step forward and show him how the hair divides up in horizontal sections down the head.
“You’re just going to be adding a new section in with the hair you already have each time. Does that make sense?”
He looks like I’ve just asked him to solve some kind of quantum equation.
“Start with the top section. It’s like slicing the top off a boiled egg.” I show him what I’m talking about and then encourage him to copy me.
“An egg?” he asks, giving me a look that tells me he thinks I’m crazy.
“Just go with it,” I say. “Now divide it into three.”
His huge hands trying to juggle the soft strands of his daughter’s hair is absolutely adorable. I’m sure the nanny can plait hair easily, but Deacon wants to be the kind of dad who knows how.
It lifts up my heart. He’s such a good dad. A good man.
“Now, slice the next layer of egg and add it to the strand on your left.”
“You’re all about the egg,” he says.
I start to laugh. “What can I say? I’m omega crazy.”
He smirks, and then as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, suddenly refocuses on the puzzle in front of him.
“That’s it,” I say, encouragingly. “Keep close to the head. Don’t pull the plait toward you, because then you get bunching at the sides.”
He looks confused.
“Just trust me.”
He reaches the bottom of Willow’s head, producing a beautiful French braid. He turns to me, a look of surprise on his face.
“Really good,” I say. “Now just plait to the end normally.”
I hand him the bobble when he gets to the end and he fumbles, but manages to secure it. He steps back to admire his work.
“I can’t believe I did that,” he says, putting his hands on his hips.
“You see—great job.”
He lets out a half laugh and raises his eyebrows like he’s shocked at how well it turned out.
Willow reaches back to feel the plait. “Can I see?” She jumps off the stool and runs to the bathroom. “I can’t see,” she calls.
“Have you got a hand mirror?” I ask.
We both head to where Willow’s calling out. There’s a hand mirror on the counter and I arrange it so she can see the back.
“Daddy, you did a really good job!” she says. “It’s just like how Mommy does it.”
He leans forward and gives her a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m pleased you like it.”
“You’re a good teacher, Aurora,” she says.
“Thank you. You have really beautiful hair.”
Willow nods. “Thank you. I know.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad you do.”
“Bedtime,” Deacon says.
“Can Aurora read me a story as well as you, Daddy?” Willow asks.
“You’ll have to ask Aurora,” Deacon says.
I shrug. “I’m happy to, if that’s okay with you?” I ask him. I know he’s very keen to keep Willow as settled as possible, so I don’t want to impose.
“Sounds good. Let’s go and find some books.”
Willow’s room is beautiful and stacked with books. It’s like she sleeps in the children’s section of a bookstore.
She has very clear ideas about what she wants to read and pulls out two books, and hands one to Deacon and one to me. “These first and then the book you brought.”
All three of us sit against the headboard of Willow’s bed, with Willow in the middle.
I have to go first. I’m a little self-conscious. I read to Darcy’s children all the time, but this time I feel under pressure. It’s ridiculous, but it’s almost like I’m on stage, with people looking at me. I read the book, using all the voices I can manage, and I’m relieved when we get to the end.
Willow claps and asks me to re-read it immediately.
Luckily, Deacon says that he wants to read his book.
Willow relents and Deacon takes the spotlight.
He’s clearly read the book before about a little girl and her dragon.
He stops at various times, just before the end of a sentence, and Willow fills in the final word.
They’re like a double act. It’s so cute.
Deacon uses silly voices and asks questions as we go along.
When he’s done, I shift off the bed. “I’ll leave you two,” I say.
Willow reaches out her arms. “Hug?” she says.
My heart lifts in my chest, and I reach over and cuddle her. “Sleep tight, Princess Willow.”
“See you downstairs,” Deacon says, smiling at me.
At the door, I turn to see Deacon pulling up Willow’s duvet and sitting beside her. He’s so devoted. So nurturing. So caring. And more than that, he seems to really enjoy being a dad. Presumably he wants more children.
My stomach twists, and I creep out the door and head downstairs.
I want to bolt. Deacon and Willow’s life is so perfect, so complete, and here I am, impinging on bedtime and teaching him how to plait his daughter’s hair.
I’m so used to orbiting other people’s lives in Woolton, that I don’t even notice it anymore.
Darcy and Logan and their children feel so embedded in my life, I can sometimes forget that they’re not my family.
But here? I’m definitely not part of this family.
I’m on the edge, looking at them through the window.
I came to New York to be at the center of my own life, and it feels a little like I’m looking into someone else’s life.
As beautiful as Deacon’s life is, I want one for myself.