DARIO
SIX
I’m not a man who second-guesses himself. I decide, I execute, and I move forward. I’ve built two careers on the principle that hesitation is a liability.
So when I pull up to their building on Saturday morning with a truck to load with their shit, there’s nothing tentative about any of it. I’ve thought it through from every angle I could find. It makes sense. I’m doing it.
I’m just not prepared for Opal to be spinning in circles when she walks into my penthouse.
She stops when she gets dizzy, regards the world at a tilt with the meditative expression of someone conducting an experiment, then starts again. Lena stands two feet behind her with one hand on a rolling suitcase and the expression of a woman who made her peace with this process some time ago.
“She thinks it’s an adventure,” Lena says.
“It is an adventure,” Opal announces, without stopping. She’s been chatty since I picked them up, which means her throat is doing better than I expected.
I help unload the bags. There isn’t much—two rolling suitcases, a tote bag dense with art supplies rattling with loose colored pencils, and a stuffed animal with one ear poking out of an outer pocket like it’s trying to see where they’re going. I’m not sure what it was when it was brand-new.
They’ve packed what they need and nothing beyond it. That tells me something about the apartment they’re leaving and something about the woman who packed the bags, and both are consistent with what I already know about her.
Lena is, without a doubt, a practical woman. She makes the best with what’s in front of her and keeps moving.
She’s dressed neatly, her honey-blonde hair pulled back, and she’s running that internal accounting she always seems to be running—watching, cataloging, staying steady while she calculates something I can’t see the full shape of. She looks calmer than I expected.
Moving in with a man who is essentially a total stranger should be enough to shake her from her calmness, but I see no evidence of such a thing.
Should I be insulted that she doesn’t appear to fear me? Or is that a compliment? I’m not sure.
That could mean she’s made her peace with the decision, or it could mean she’s very good at not showing the alternative. Probably both. Those aren’t always different skills.
At her young age—twenty-six, I looked into it—she’s raised a smart child on her own. This could speak to Lena’s resilience in the face of problems, or it could be a denial of reality. I suspect it’s the former, as she’s never given me a reason to believe she’s delusional.
“It’s a castle,” Opal says, eyes still wide on everything. She still sounds like she swallowed a handful of gravel, chatty or not.
“It’s a penthouse,” I say.
“Those are the same,” she says, with the authority of someone who has settled the question.
Something turns over in my chest, and I glance at Lena, who’s smiling sweetly at her daughter. I find I have no will to argue the point.
“How does the elevator work?” Opal asks.
I find myself at a loss for an explanation, as elevators are not my specialty. Rudimentary knowledge comes to mind, but then she cuts me off with a brief monologue regarding pulleys that she learned about from a book.
“…used to have operators, the second-best job ever invented. The best job is a marine biologist because they get to swim all day.”
“I believe they also do some science—”
“And they get to pet sharks!”
“Is that a goal of yours?”
“One day. But I also wanna be a robot.”
I squint at Lena, who offers no explanation whatsoever. Back to Opal, I smile. “A pair of worthy goals. Always good to keep your options open.”
She gives me the careful, measuring look of a child deciding whether a new person’s opinions are worth anything, apparently concludes yes, and turns to run to my wall of windows that overlook the city.
The penthouse is clean, spare, functional.
Not curated with a child in mind. Dark furniture, organized bookshelves, nothing on the walls without a reason.
Four years here, and it reflects me accurately.
This has never felt like a deficiency until I’m watching a five-year-old walk in and immediately begin turning slowly in the center of the living room with her arms out, testing something.
The scale. The acoustics. Something only she has the instruments to measure.
She stops. She looks at me. “This is very big.”
“It is.”
“We could run in here.” Inside. The full length of the floor.
“When you’re well again, yes. But there are walls, and thus, it is not a good space for running.”
She considers this. “You’re right—I won’t run.”
“How about I show you to your new bedroom?”
Her little head bobs.
The east bedroom faces the morning—good, clean light from around seven onward. I bought this unit partly for those east rooms, for plants that need consistent indirect light. Perfect for indoor gardening.
The room has been empty since I moved in. Just bookshelves to store some of my medical texts. Somehow, between stitching people up and helping others die painlessly, plants never became a top priority.
I look at the wide windowsill, the quality of the light even at this midmorning hour. A pity to use the room for something else—there are so many poisonous plants one can grow with the right attention. But when I’m honest with myself, I know I’ll never get around to it.
Besides, I think Opal will like this room.
“Here we are. What do you—”
She runs past me to investigate, opens the closet, closes it, opens it again, and makes a circuit of the perimeter. Her enthusiasm catches in my ribs. “Mine?”
“If you like it.”
She grins, missing a canine. “I love it!”
Why had I not noticed that missing canine?
“You gave her the best room,” Lena says, from behind me.
I should have noticed that tooth before. I’m more observant than this. Why—
“Dario, are you okay?” Lena asks.
Right. The kid, the room. “She’ll use it better than I was.”
Lena gives me a real look, then goes to help Opal unpack.
I leave them to it, heading for my office.
Time for my tea. Lemon verbena for the nerves, vanilla for mood elevation, and just a hint of narcotics to keep the edge of reality to a tolerable level.
Nothing hallucinatory—just enough sedation to keep me awake, but also leave me with my humanity intact. For the most part.
When I can breathe again, I realize the fault is not with me. I didn’t notice Opal’s missing tooth because, to my mind, children are exactly that—children. I don’t catalog their features the way I do with adults. Children are not a threat, and therefore, are not worthy of note.
But this child is now in my home and will be for three months. That changes my calculus.
Later, after Opal is asleep and the apartment has settled into a new quality of quiet I’m adjusting to, Lena finds me in the kitchen.
She’s changed into something easier—no shoes, hair down around her shoulders—and she’s carrying herself differently than on the drive over. Less braced. More at ease.
She sets out ground rules. “I keep working.”
“That will significantly lengthen your commute.”
The faint arch of her brow tells me I crossed a line. “I will keep working, Dario.”
“Very well.” I won’t argue the point. I don’t care if she keeps working, so long as it doesn’t interfere with our arrangement.
“Opal’s routine stays exactly as is. Same school, same schedule, same everything.”
“Won’t the address change affect where she attends?” Living where I do, I know she can get into a better school.
But there’s that sharp brow again. “She loves her school and her friends.”
I shrug. “Whatever you need.” I wasn’t planning to touch any of that, but she needs to say it out loud, so I let her talk.
“The arrangement stays private.” She says this looking straight at me, and there’s a reading in it. Of her or me, I’m not sure. Is she ashamed of what she’s doing? Or is she afraid to be associated with me?
Either reason is smart. “As you wish.”
“You agreed to that very easily,” she says.
“They’re reasonable accommodations.” Barely accommodations at all.
“Okay,” she says, as though something’s been settled. “I’m going to bed.”
I nod and watch her walk away. The apartment sounds different now—occupied in a way it hasn’t been since I moved in. Not louder, but there’s a texture to my home that it didn’t have before. I try to identify whether this is a problem and find that I can’t, which is itself information worth noting.
I go to my office and work through case notes for nearly an hour. The work is fine once I’m in it. But then an email comes through.
Marco. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
Today has rattled me enough. Too much change. Too much upheaval. Now my boss wants me to pay him a visit?
I blow a breath out my nose to let out my aggravation, but to no avail. I don’t want to see Marco. I prefer the version of my world where he’s not a factor.
He’s fine for the organization, I suppose.
Focuses too hard on low-level stuff, but that’s only to keep us off the law’s radar.
I understand why he’s pivoted us in this direction, but when your targets are single moms and corner stores, you’re not going to grow the business.
It’s small potatoes, and that’s a waste of time.
Not that he’s ever heard me when I told him so.
I shut my laptop and push off my desk with both hands. The brown bottle on the shelf calls my name, and I answer with a three-finger pour. Knocking it back doesn’t help either.
I could hit the gym to sand the edge off. Or… I head for my bedroom. A hot shower and a jerk will probably be enough to help.
But when I open my door, Lena’s there. In my bed. A pale pink nightgown, her hair in loose waves across the pillow, reading something on her phone.
“You’re here.”
“You’re observant.” She looks up when the door opens without particular surprise.
I need to bite that smart lip of hers.
Closing the door behind me, I wonder aloud, “So, you’re here to meet your end of the bargain?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”