Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Christine
The batter hisses the moment it meets the pan.
I tilt my wrist, spreading it just enough before setting the bowl aside, already reaching for the next thing, the next movement, the next task that keeps everything flowing the way it should.
“...And then the goat said I was too small to cross,” Blue continues, her voice animated behind me, her legs swinging where she’s perched on the counter.
I hum, half-listening, half-not, sliding a spatula under the edge of the pancake, checking the color before flipping it over in one clean motion.
“So I told him I’m not small,” she adds, offended even in the retelling. “I’m just little. That’s different.”
“Very different,” I agree, reaching for a plate, stacking the first one, already pouring another circle of batter into the pan.
“And then the ants came,” she goes on, lowering her voice like this part matters more. “But they were not normal ants, they were big like this.” I glance over just in time to see her stretch her hands wide, exaggerating their size.
“Terrifying,” I murmur.
“They were not scary,” she corrects immediately. “They were helping me.”
“Of course they were.” I nod, agreeing.
She pauses, thinking through something for a second.
“Mommy?” She leans over, her voice conspiratory.
“Mm.”
“Do ants have dreams?”
“I don’t know, baby,” I answer with a straight face.
“Do goats dream?” She presses.
“Probably.” I drag this one a little bit to show I’m contemplating my answer not just throwing it at her.
“Do pancakes dream?”
“Pancakes?” I glance at her, one brow lifting slightly. “I hope not.”
“Why?” She pouts.
“Because then I’d feel bad eating them.”
“Mommy!” She gasps.
I smile despite myself, sliding the next pancake onto the plate, stacking it neatly before reaching for the syrup.
Behind her, the living room is unoccupied this morning.
Aisha should be here by now, leaning against the wall, contributing nonsense to this conversation like she always does, making it worse, louder, and funnier.
Instead, she’s curled up in the other room, wrapped in a blanket, claiming she’s “under attack by microscopic demons” and refusing to move unless absolutely necessary.
Which means it’s just me this morning.
Just me and Blue and the constant rhythm of things that need to get done.
I plate the pancakes, cutting them into smaller pieces before setting the fork beside them.
I have tried not to think about what happened in this apartment some nights ago. I’ve been running away from it.
The way he said it was like there was nothing else to consider. And even worse is the fact that he’s following through on it.
It’s been days.
Days of silence.
Days of nothing.
Except for the money he sent two nights ago. Money I plan on returning when I have the stomach to face him.
My phone vibrates on the counter, and the notification comes in just as I reach for the glass of juice.
My gaze flickers briefly to it, catching the message from another unknown number. It’s been one threat after another with Daniel, switching numbers every time I block him.
I’ve never seen someone so desperate, so unwilling to take rejection and grow the hell up.
I don’t open it.
I pick up the glass instead, take a sip, then set it down like nothing just shifted in the room.
I turn back to Blue.
“Eat, baby,” I nudge the plate closer to her.
“Mommy…” She frowns at me.
“What, baby?” I ask, already knowing.
“You did a face.”
“I always do a face.” I force a smile. “Ask Aunty Aisha.”
“No,” she shakes her head, serious now. “You did that one.”
I stare at her for a second.
She’s too perceptive and observant. Too much like her fath… I don’t finish that thought.
Instead, I reach for her, my fingers finding her sides, digging in just enough to tickle.
“Ahh!” she shrieks instantly, squirming, her whole body folding in on itself as laughter bursts out of her.
“Eat your pancakes,” I threaten, holding my fingers in the air.
“Okay, stop!” she gasps, laughing harder, trying to push my hands away.
“Eat.”
“I can’t!”
“You can.”
“Okay, I will.” She dissolves into giggles, the earlier question forgotten, replaced by something lighter.
Exactly where I need it.
Exactly where I keep us.
Exactly where I’ve been keeping us for days.
I shut the van door with a dull thud, standing there for a second, with the keys still in my hand.
I look over at the boxes stacked neatly, and everything is where it should be. Labeled. Sorted. Ready. But I reach in anyway, adjusting a ribbon roll that doesn’t need adjusting, pressing down a lid that’s already closed, my fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before I pull back.
The morning air drifts warmly against my skin, carrying that faint mix of hope and something tangy from the bakery down the street.
My phone rings, cutting through my distorted thoughts.
I don’t bother with checking the number because I already know.
“Daniel…” I answer, the name halfway out, ready to shut it down before it starts. “I think it’s time to grow the fuck…”
“Hello…” The distorted voice on the other end stops me cold. “You’re hard to reach.”
“What?” My breath stutters, chill dripping down my spine.
The voice sounds wrong, ominous.
“Daniel?” My fingers clench around the phone, my body going still in a way that feels instinctive, like something in me already understands this isn’t what I thought it was.
“Try again.”
“Who is this?” My voice comes out lower than I expect.
“We’ve been watching.” The voice answers instead.
“That’s not funny.” My stomach drops.
“I’m not trying to be.”
My gaze moves, scanning the street, the buildings, the parked cars, the people passing like they have places to be, lives that don’t involve standing here with something clawing into their chest.
Everything looks normal.
“What do you want?” I ask, balling my fist.
“You’ll know soon.”
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away slowly, staring at the blank screen like it might flicker back to life if I wait.
It doesn’t.
My grip loosens slightly, then folds again.
Because what the hell was that?
“Christine.”
I don’t turn, my mind still looping around the call.
“Christine.” It’s closer now.
A hand waves in front of my face, and fingers snap.
“Huh?” I blink.
Tati stands in front of me, brows pulled together, her expression caught somewhere between concern and impatience.
“Where did you go?” She asks, tilting her head slightly.
“Nowhere,” I answer automatically, the word coming out too quickly.
“Liar.” She doesn’t buy it. “You were outside zoning like you saw a ghost.”
“I didn’t,” I reply, already moving past her, keys shifting in my hand as I head toward the office door.
She turns with me, falling into step easily.
“Uh-huh,” she hums, not convinced but not pushing either. “If you say so.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“So,” she starts, already in work mode, already shifting the energy. “We’ve got a small one.”
“Define small.”
“Cute small,” she corrects. “Grandma wants to throw something for her granddaughter.”
“Cute.” I set my hands down, pausing at the door.
“I told you.” She smiles.
“How old is she?”
“Seven,” she answers, flipping through her notes on her tablet. “And a very specific child who likes butterflies, but not the yellow ones because apparently they’re ‘too bright.’”
“That’s… oddly reasonable.”
“Right?” Tati nods. “Also, she wants a tea party situation but with ‘grown-up vibes.’ Her words, not mine.”
I huff out a breath, already picturing it, already slotting pieces into place: tables, colors, and theme.
“Budget?” I ask.
“Decent,” she replies. “Not crazy, but enough to make it look like we care.”
“We always care.”
“Of course we do,” she grins. “Do we take it?” She asks.
“Yeah,” I nod, slotting in the key. “We’ll take it.”
I twist just as a car pulls up.
We both turn, not enough to stop doing what we’re doing, but enough to notice.
“Clean ride.” Tati glances over first, already curious, already interested. “New client?” She murmurs, straightening instinctively, her whole posture shifting before she even knows who’s stepping out.
I push the door open, warm air meeting my skin from inside.
The door of the car opens and Atelia steps out.
I stop.
Tati doesn’t.
“Good morning!” she calls out, all brightness and business as she moves ahead of me, already smoothing down her shirt, already smiling. “Welcome…”
“I’m here for Christine.” Atelia doesn’t break stride.
“Oh.” Tati pauses mid-step, her smile flickering just enough to show she didn’t expect that.
“Hi.” I meet her halfway.
“Hello.” Her gaze lands on me, assessing, not wasting time on anything else.
“It’s alright, Tati,” I glance back briefly. “I’ll take this.”
“Yeah,” Tati nods, stepping back, though her eyes linger a second longer than they should, curiosity sitting right there, barely concealed. “I’ll… be here.”
I turn instead, leading the way toward my office, the familiar path suddenly feeling narrower than it usually does.
Atelia follows, close enough to be felt.
“Welcome.” I push the door open and step inside, moving toward my desk, gesturing lightly toward the chair across from it. “Sit.”
“Thanks.” But she doesn’t sit or even look at it.
She stays by the door for a second, then steps further in, stopping just short of the desk, her gaze fixed on me in a way that feels less like looking and more like measuring.
I hold it, because I’m not about to look away first.
“I don’t get it.” Her head tilts slightly like she’s trying to line something up.
My brows draw together slightly.
“And what exactly don’t you get?” I ask, my voice even, though there’s a thread under it now.
“You.” Her gaze doesn’t falter.
“Me?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs.
She exhales, like she’s already over her own thought, already done with whatever conclusion she was reaching.
“Never mind,” she waves it off.
And then, finally, she moves.
She crosses the space and sits.
“If you say so.” I stay where I am, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk, waiting.
She watches me for a second more, like she’s recalibrating, like she’s filing away whatever she came in here thinking and replacing it with something more important.
“I’m not here to waste your time,” she starts.
“That’s reassuring,” I reply.
Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stay.
“There’s a cookout this weekend,” she continues. “At Robert’s place.”
“And?” My expression doesn’t change.
“You and Blue should come.” She offers, not dressing it up.
I let the silence hover for a second.
“No.” My answer comes out just as simple.
She doesn’t react.
“Think about it,” she presses, leaning forward slightly, her tone shifting into something more persuasive. “It’s not about you. It’s about her.”
“It’s always about her,” I correct, my voice steady. “Which is exactly why we won’t be there.”
“He made a hasty decision.” Atelia studies me, her fingers tapping once against her knee before stilling. “He wants to know her.”
“He doesn’t.” I counter, the words landing flat. “He made that very clear.”
“He’s had a change of mind.”
“After you talked to him?”
“After we talked to him,” she corrects with a shrug. “Enzo and I.”
“Do I even want to know about that?” I scoff, looking away.
“Look, Robert made a mistake.”
“And he should be the one fixing it, not sending his lap dog…” I flare.
“Ouch.” She places a hand on her chest, feigning injury. “He wanted to, but I told him I should do it instead. Woman’s touch and all.” She exhales. “Besides, you blocked his number, didn’t you?”
“So?” I meet her gaze again. “My decisions don’t need your approval.”
“No,” she agrees easily. “But they do have consequences.”
I hold her gaze.
“And so does his.”
“Fair,” she concedes.
Tension warps around us, biting now.
“So that’s it?” She asks. “You’re just going to… what? Keep her away?”
“I’m taking her to my foster mom,” I reply. “We’ll stay there for a while and I'll know what to do from there.”
Atelia leans back at that.
Really leans back this time, her shoulders easing, something in her expression changing in a way I didn’t expect.
“I get it now.” She smiles.
“Get what?”
“You’re not confused,” she continues, her gaze prying. “You’re just… stubborn in a very specific way.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me again, but this time it’s different.
Less questioning.
More… certain.
“Robert has a type,” she offers after a moment. “He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.”
“Do I care?” I raise a brow.
“Mmh.” She hums, tapping her fingers lightly against the armrest. “He likes women who don’t fold or bend over because he tells them to.”
“Good for them.”
“You should take the invitation.” She leans forward slightly again, just enough to close the distance without making it obvious.
“Hard pass.” I clip.
“Suit yourself.” She rises slowly from the chair, smoothing down her jacket. “I was this rigid when he was moving in my direction. Now, I’m the best friend.”
Her words hit me, but it is the quick dim in her eyes that lingers more.
I know what she’s not saying. I hear it anyway.
“Whatever exists between Robert and me is one thing.” My voice trembles as I go. “What he said about not wanting anything to do with my child… His child…”
“A child he didn’t know existed until recently,” she cuts in. “Give the man a fucking break.”
“He could have asked for time.”
“He was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of…” She stops herself, the rest caught somewhere behind her teeth. “You’ll have to hear that from him.”
She steps back then, not retreating, just… creating space. Like she’s done pushing.
“Well, he had the chance and blew it.” I fold my arms across my chest, firm in my decision.
“Think about the cookout.” She turns toward the door, not looking back. “Or don’t.”
Her hand pauses on the handle.
“But life isn’t always black and white,” she adds, quieter this time.
And then she’s gone.
I let out a breath that’s been sitting in my stomach.
It’s not even about what he said anymore.
It’s about what I’m starting to see.
The call from earlier feels wrong in a way I can’t ignore. Daniel is reckless, yes, but not like that.
Robert was right.
He needs to stay away.