6. Nick #2
It looks like a home. A real home. Nothing like the cold museum where I grew up, where everything was perfectly arranged and perfectly empty and the closest thing to warmth was the disappointment in my father’s eyes when I failed to meet expectations.
Jo’s friend Grace, introduced quickly, apologetically, is a whirlwind of energy and lumpy cheese. “It’s only a little lumpy! The lumps add character! I’m so sorry, I got distracted, there was this thing on my phone...”
“It’s fine,” Jo says, laughing for what might be the first time all day. “Grace, this is Nick. My, um. My boss.”
Grace’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. The look she gives Jo is loaded with about seventeen different questions, none of which are appropriate for present company.
“Nice to meet you, boss,” Grace says, managing to make the word sound like both an insult and an invitation to elaborate.
But Rory is already tugging at my hand, and elaboration will have to wait.
“Come see my room! I have dinosaurs! And Legos! And Professor Chomps!”
The tour is comprehensive. The bedroom is exactly what a six-year-old’s room should be, chaos and wonder in equal measure, dinosaur posters on every wall, a Lego collection that would make any adult jealous, and a bed shaped like a race car that I suddenly want to know where Jo found.
“And this,” Rory says, holding up a stuffed dinosaur that’s clearly been loved within an inch of its life, “is Professor Chomps. He’s a T-Rex. And a scientist.”
“A scientist T-Rex?”
“Yeah! He studies meteors. So he can stop them.” Rory’s face goes serious, the way only children can be serious about imaginary scenarios. “He doesn’t want to go extinct again.”
“That’s very smart of him.”
“I know. I’m his assistant. We’re working on a plan.”
A laugh surprises itself out of me, a real laugh, the kind I haven’t made in longer than I can remember. When I look up, Jo is watching from the doorway, and the expression on her face makes my chest tight again.
“You’re good with kids,” she says quietly, once Rory has run off to find his favorite action figure.
“I like kids.”
“Not everyone does.”
“Well.” A shrug. “I’m not everyone.”
The words hang between us. Charged. Meaningful. Heavy with things neither of us is saying.
Rory comes running back, superhero in hand, and the moment breaks. But it doesn’t leave. It tucks itself somewhere under my ribs and stays warm there, a quiet what-if I’m not ready to name.
Dinner is lumpy mac and cheese and frozen peas and the best meal I’ve had in months.
Rory talks nonstop, a stream of consciousness that covers dinosaurs, his best friend Theo at school, why broccoli is a war crime, and his very detailed opinions on which superhero would win in a fight (spoiler: the one with the best dinosaur sidekick, which is apparently not a common superpower but should be).
Grace leaves after dinner with a hug for Jo, a fist bump for Rory, and a look at me that clearly says we’ll be discussing this later.
Dishes happen at the sink, the two of us side by side, Rory doing his homework at the kitchen table with the kind of focus that suggests bribery may have been involved.
“You really didn’t have to stay,” Jo says, passing me a plate to dry.
“I know.”
“Or do dishes.”
“I know.”
“Or let Rory give you the full tour, including the closet where he keeps his ‘secret rock collection’ that is neither secret nor particularly interesting.”
“Those rocks were very interesting. The gray one especially.”
She laughs, soft, surprised, and our hands brush reaching for the same plate. Neither of us moves away.
“You know,” she says, voice quieter now, “you’re nothing like your brother.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s the best thing.”
The moment stretches. Her eyes are soft, warm, and standing in her small kitchen with soap suds on my hands and her kid humming tunelessly at the table behind us, everything feels possible in a way it hasn’t in years.
When the dishes are done and Rory’s homework is finished and the excuses to stay have run out, leaving becomes inevitable but not easy.
“Will you come back?”
The question comes from knee-height. Rory is hugging my legs with surprising strength for a six-year-old, looking up at me with those big eyes that are so much like his mother’s.
Over his head, Jo is biting her lip. Uncertain. Hopeful, maybe, but trying not to be.
“If your mom says it’s okay.”
Rory turns, weaponizing cuteness with the expertise of a child who knows exactly how to get what he wants. “Mom? Can he?”
Jo’s eyes meet mine and hold, and the look carries everything we haven’t said out loud: an acknowledgment, a permission, a promise.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “He can come back.”
I drive home on autopilot. The city lights blur past, the radio plays something forgettable, and all I can think about is the warmth of that small apartment.
Jo’s smile when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Rory’s laugh, high and delighted, when Professor Chomps successfully stopped an imaginary meteor.
The way her hand felt when it brushed against mine, brief and electric and not nearly enough.
This is dangerous, the rational part of my brain whispers. This is so fucking dangerous.
She’s my employee. She’s my brother’s ex-wife. She has a kid, a whole life, baggage that could fill a warehouse. Getting involved with her is the worst possible idea I’ve ever had.
But when I close my eyes, I see her. Laughing in her kitchen. Holding her son. Looking at me like I’m something worth keeping.
Dangerous, my brain insists.
I don’t care.