17. Conrad #2
I wanted the woman who wore black in springtime and carried sunscreen in her bag at all times.
The woman who made terrible puns and medicinal tea.
The woman who knew exactly how to make CJ feel proud of a story, Bianca feel seen in her seriousness, and Billie feel loved without sanding down her wildness.
I wanted the woman who had protected my children from home invaders.
The woman who had kissed me back.
The woman I could not stop thinking about no matter how hard I tried.
Sandra was still waiting.
I forced myself into a polite smile. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
The hopeful lift of her features completely vanished. “Tonight, or…?”
“At all,” I said gently.
A few people moved in the distance near reception. Someone laughed inside an office.
Sandra straightened, embarrassment crossing her face before she smoothed it away. “Oh. Of course. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“No, you’re fine,” I said quickly. “I’m flattered. Really. I just…”
I stopped. What was the word for Winnie? Not employee, not anymore, though technically yes. Not girlfriend, because we hadn’t had that conversation and because all of this was tangled in ways I didn’t know how to explain.
“I’m interested in someone,” I said finally.
She blinked, her posture going slightly rigid as she absorbed the rejection, disappointment shifting into understanding. “Lucky lady.”
I fought back a smile. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
She nodded once, then lifted the folder slightly. “I’ll email you my questions.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Sandra.”
The elevator arrived again, and I stepped inside before I could say something awkward.
As the doors closed, I leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly.
I had turned down a woman because my heart had already moved toward someone else.
That should have terrified me. It did, actually.
But beneath the fear was something else.
Something that felt less like betrayal with each passing day.
Saturday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen, staring at a raw chicken as if it was a bomb I had to dispose of.
“You’re glaring at the chicken,” Bianca informed me from the kitchen island.
“I’m concentrating.”
“Dad, you’ve read the recipe four times.”
I waved her off. “Good cooking requires precision.”
Winnie’s eyebrows rose over the book she was pretending to read. I’d invited her over for dinner and insisted I would be the one cooking, she would be the guest.
Billie wandered in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. “Is the chicken dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No.”
She climbed onto a stool and watched me season the bird, her nose scrunching in concentration. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“Oh?”
“You should put candy on it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But then it’d be dessert chicken.”
“That’s not a thing, baby.”
“It could be.”
Winnie made a thoughtful hum. “Anything is possible with enough poor judgment.”
I glanced toward her. Big mistake. She was sitting at the breakfast nook in one of her usual black dresses, sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. Her hair spilled over one shoulder while she watched us all with this soft, entertained expression that still caught me off guard sometimes.
She belonged here. And even though that should’ve made me nervous or cause me to question what that meant, I simply acknowledged that truth and moved on.
I turned back toward the chicken. “I am making roast chicken,” I announced. “A respectable family dinner.”
Billie leaned toward the pan. “Can I touch it?”
“No.”
“What if I wash my hands?”
“No.”
“What if I wear gloves?”
“Still no.”
“What if?—”
“Billie.”
She grumbled, but she stopped asking to touch the raw chicken.
I’d gotten better at the whole discipline thing.
A few months ago, I probably would’ve given in halfway through the conversation because I was tired and desperate to keep everyone happy all the time.
Somewhere along the way, Winnie had taught me that boundaries were not cruelty.
Kids actually liked structure. Apparently.
Terrifying information.
The roast chicken turned out… decent. It certainly wasn’t Winnie-level incredible where everyone closed their eyes after the first bite and questioned whether thyme had healing properties. But it was edible.
I was pulling it from the oven when a shriek erupted from the laundry room. “Dad!”
Then another voice: “She tried to eat me!”
I set the roasting pan down so fast I nearly sloshed simmering chicken fat across the counter.
Billie sprinted into the kitchen, laughing hysterically while Mrs. Alvarez, our bi-weekly housekeeper, followed behind her.
I’d hired her about a month ago after catching Winnie cleaning the house on more than one occasion.
That wasn’t in her job description, and I couldn’t stand the thought of her continuously doing more than was asked of her.
Unless, of course, the more in question involved her body against mine. Then, I would make exceptions.
“She bit me!” Mrs. Alvarez cried, pulling me from my naughty thoughts.
“I did not,” Billie said instantly.
“You put your whole mouth on my arm!” She held her arm out and showed me the evidence. Thank God, she hadn’t broken the skin, but there were very distinct bite marks on our housekeeper’s arm.
Billie looked at me with complete sincerity. “That is technically different from biting.”
Winnie coughed into her hand to hide laughter.
“Billie.” I crossed my arms and scowled in her direction.
Billie pointed at the housekeeper. “She said I was feral.”
“You hissed at the vacuum cleaner,” Mrs. Alvarez explained.
Billie slumped against the island. “Fine. I wanted to see what her arm tasted like.”
Mrs. Alvarez looked horrified.
I crouched so Billie had to look at me directly. “We do not bite people.”
“She wasn’t using the laundry basket correctly.”
“That is still not how we solve conflict.”
“She’s fine.”
“Billie.” This time, my tone landed firmly enough that the defiant spark left Billie’s eyes.
Winnie watched from the nook, saying nothing.
Billie sighed. “Sorry, Mrs. Alvarez.”
The older woman narrowed her eyes and grinned. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I am charming.”
“That is unfortunately true.” Mrs. Alvarez walked back to the laundry room.
Crisis mostly resolved. I sent Billie to her room for a timeout, but mostly to keep her from pulling any more shenanigans while I plated the food.
At dinner, things deteriorated again. Bianca poked suspiciously at the roasted carrots on her plate. “Why aren’t we ordering out?”
“Because,” I waved my hand in the direction of the chicken, “I cooked.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is what concerns me.”
CJ laughed into his mashed potatoes.
“What? It’s good,” I defended.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good,” Bianca replied. “I just don’t understand why we’re eating this when there are perfectly acceptable prepared meals in the freezer.”
Winnie had spent the previous afternoon filling half the freezer with labeled containers because she cooked like she was preparing for a long, hard winter without electricity or running water.
There was soup, lasagna, pot pies, marinated vegetables and three different desserts. There was also something involving puff pastry and mushrooms that had me considering proposing marriage on principle alone.
Bianca gestured toward the fridge. “She literally meal-prepped happiness. But, for some odd reason, tonight we’re eating mediocre poultry.”
I pointed my fork at her. “Bianca.”
She crossed her arms. “I just don’t see why you suddenly need to cook.”
Because I was trying. Because I wanted to learn. Because every time Winnie cooked for us, I felt both grateful and vaguely ashamed that I’d spent years convincing myself work mattered more than knowing how to feed my own children properly.
“Because I’m your parent, and sometimes I decide what’s for dinner.”
The table went quiet. Old me probably would’ve backtracked immediately to break the uncomfortable tension. New me held the line.
Bianca studied me for a second, clearly trying to determine whether negotiation remained possible. Apparently, she decided against it.
“The chicken is actually pretty good,” she admitted reluctantly.
Victory.
I felt absurdly proud.
Winnie caught my eye from across the table and smiled faintly. It warmed me embarrassingly fast.
The closer Mother’s Day got, though, the more fragile things became around the house.
The kids stopped mentioning school projects involving handmade cards.
CJ got quieter. Bianca started sleeping with her bedroom lamp on again.
Even Billie seemed more emotionally volatile, though with Billie that mostly manifested as trying to decorate shrubs outside with various household items.
The unspoken and heavy tension sat over everything.