Chapter 4 - Casey
I stand in the kitchen, staring at a box of macaroni and cheese like it holds the answers to the universe, and try to figure out what the hell just happened.
Riley has never been like this before. Never.
She's asked about her mom, sure. Usually in that casual way kids do when they're trying to understand their world. *Where's my mommy? Why don't I have one like Sophie does?*
And I've answered as honestly as I can without completely destroying her: *Your mom had to leave, but that doesn't mean you're not loved. You have me, and Grandma and Grandpa, and that's enough.*
She's always seemed satisfied with that. Maybe not happy about it but satisfied. So why is she suddenly playing matchmaker?
I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, my mind turning over possibilities.
Maybe something happened at pre-K. It wouldn't be the first time some kid said something thoughtless about Riley not having a mom. Last year, a boy named Marcus told her that everyone has a mom and if she didn't, it meant hers didn't love her.
Riley punched him in the stomach.
I had to have a very serious conversation about how we don't hit people, even when they say hurtful things. Miss Amy assured me it was handled, that Marcus apologized, and that these things happen with small children who don't understand nuance.
But maybe it's happening again. Maybe someone said something, and Riley's decided the solution is to acquire a mom as quickly as possible.
Or maybe, and this is somehow worse, she's just lonely.
It's been the two of us for three years. I've tried to be enough. I've tried to be both parents, to fill every gap Sarah left when she walked out that door and never looked back.
But I can't be everything. I can't teach Riley how to braid hair properly or explain why some girls are mean to each other or talk about... I don't know, girl stuff. Whatever that is.
I've been telling myself it's fine. That she's too young to need those things yet. That we have time. But what if we don't? What if she's already feeling the absence of something I can't give her?
The water starts to boil, and I dump the pasta in, watching it swirl.
Upstairs, I hear the bathroom door open and close, followed by Riley's footsteps heading toward the guest room.
Oh God. She's bothering Morgan.
I should go intervene, but honestly, Morgan seems capable of handling a four-year-old's interrogation. She did fine earlier when Riley asked if she was a princess and whether she had a boyfriend.
My mind catches on that last one.
No boyfriend.
Not that it matters. Not that I was wondering. Just... filing away information, the way you do when someone's staying in your house.
The pasta needs stirring. I focus on that instead of the fact that there's a beautiful woman upstairs who apparently doesn't have anyone waiting for her, who's been traveling alone for six months, who looked at my daughter like she actually mattered and not like she was an inconvenience.
The kind of woman who, in another life, I might have asked out for coffee.
But this isn't another life. This is the life where I have a four-year-old who depends on me completely, where I run a small-town auto shop that barely breaks even most months, where I haven't so much as looked at a woman with interest since Sarah left.
I learned the hard way that trusting someone with your heart, and worse, with your kid's heart, is the fastest way to destroy everything you've built.
I drain the pasta with more force than necessary.
"Daddy!"
Riley's voice carries down the stairs, bright and excited, and I brace myself.
"Yeah?"
"Can Morgan eat with us?"
I close my eyes. "I already told her she could, remember?"
"I know, but I wanted to make sure she knows she's INVITED. Like, really invited."
There's a quieter voice, Morgan's, saying something I can't make out.
"He WANTS you to eat with us!" Riley hollers back down.
"Riley, inside voice," I call.
"This IS my inside voice!"
It absolutely is not, but I've learned to pick my battles.
I'm mixing in the butter and milk when I hear two sets of footsteps on the stairs. One thundering, one gentle, and then Riley barrels into the kitchen with Morgan trailing behind her, looking apologetic.
"I tried to tell her I could wait until you were done," Morgan says. "But she insisted on making sure I knew where the kitchen was."
"It's IMPORTANT," Riley says, climbing into her chair at the small dining table. "What if you got hungry in the middle of the night and couldn't find it?"
"That would be a tragedy," Morgan agrees solemnly, and I catch the smile she's trying to hide.
She's changed clothes, now wearing soft-looking gray sweatpants and a worn t-shirt from some 5K run in a town I've never heard of. Her hair's down now, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she looks comfortable in a way that makes my kitchen feel smaller.
More intimate.
I focus very hard on the macaroni and cheese.
"Hope you're hungry now " I say, dividing it onto three plates. "Riley wasn't kidding when she said I make this every Monday. It's kind of our tradition."
"Traditions are important," Morgan says, accepting the plate I hand her.
Riley's already digging in, getting cheese sauce on her face within approximately three seconds, and I grab a napkin before sitting down across from Morgan.
For a moment, it's quiet except for Riley's enthusiastic chewing.
Then Morgan takes a bite, and her eyes widen slightly. "Okay, Riley was right. This is really good."
"It's from a box," I say again, because I feel the need to manage expectations.
"I don't care. It's perfect." She takes another bite, and there's something about the way she eats, like she's actually enjoying it, not just being polite, that makes my chest warm.
When was the last time I cooked for someone other than Riley?
When was the last time someone sat at this table who wasn't family?
I can't remember.
Riley launches into a story about Mr. Shellby and how he ate three whole pieces of lettuce today, which is "basically a record," and Morgan listens like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever heard.
I watch them while pretending not to, noting the way Morgan asks follow-up questions, the way she doesn't talk down to Riley, the way my daughter lights up under the attention.
And that's when it hits me.
Maybe Riley isn't acting weird because something bad happened. Maybe she's acting weird because something good is happening, right now, and she wants to hold onto it.
Maybe she's lonely not for a mom specifically, but for this. For someone else at the table. For the sound of adult conversation that isn't just me on the phone with a parts supplier. For the feeling of family being bigger than just the two of us.
"Daddy, you're not eating," Riley observes.
I pick up my fork. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how you're getting cheese everywhere except in your mouth."
She giggles and makes an exaggerated show of taking a huge bite, getting even more cheese on her face in the process.
Morgan's laughing, and the sound fills the kitchen in a way that makes me realize how quiet it usually is.
Too quiet, maybe.
After dinner, Riley demands that Morgan read her a bedtime story. I'm about to intervene, and tell Riley she's being too much, that Morgan's probably tired, but Morgan just smiles and says, "I'd love to."
So, I clean up the kitchen while their voices drift down from upstairs, Morgan doing different voices for different characters in a book about a bear who's afraid of the dark.
She's good at it. Better than I am, which Riley has pointed out on multiple occasions.
I'm wiping down the counter when my phone buzzes. My dad.
*How's my granddaughter?*
I text back: *Good. Insisted we adopt a stranger today.*
The response is immediate: *What?*
I should probably explain, but I'm perversely enjoying the idea of my dad trying to figure out what that means.
*Woman's car broke down. Riley invited her to stay in the guest room.*
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
*Casey Michael Brennan, please tell me you didn't let a complete stranger into your house where my granddaughter sleeps.*
I roll my eyes. *She's fine, Dad. Harmless. Just traveling through and needed help.*
*You don't know that she's harmless.*
*Pretty sure harmless people don't travel with a car full of camping gear and granola bars.*
*That's exactly what a smart criminal would want you to think.*
I'm about to respond when another text comes through.
*Your mother wants to know if she's pretty.*
I stare at the phone.
*Why would that matter?*
*She says it matters. Is she?*
I think about Morgan's hazel eyes and the freckles across her nose and the way she looked when she laughed at something Riley said.
*Not relevant to the situation,* I text back.
*That's a yes. Your mother's already planning the wedding.*
*There's no wedding. She's staying for a few days while I fix her car. That's it.*
*Uh huh.*
*I'm serious.*
*So was your mother when she said you need to stop hiding from the world.*
I set the phone down. My parents mean well. They always mean well. But they don't understand that I'm not hiding. I'm protecting. There's a difference.
Riley comes downstairs then, pajamas on, teeth brushed, Morgan following behind her.
"Morgan reads REALLY good," Riley announces. "Way better than you."
Morgan's trying not to smile. "She's very kind. I'm sure your dad's reading is perfectly fine."
"He makes the princess sound like a pirate," Riley repeats. "It's a problem."
"It was ONE TIME—"
"No. No. Three times," Riley corrects. "I counted."
Morgan's shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter, and I give up.
"Okay, fine. I'm a terrible princess. Can we all move on?"
Riley considers this. "Okay. But Morgan should read to me from now on."
"Morgan is a guest, not a permanent story reader."
"She could be permanent," Riley says, with the subtle manipulation skills of a hostage negotiator. "If she wanted."
"Riley—"
"I'm just SAYING."
I look at Morgan helplessly, and she crouches down to Riley's level.
"I'd love to read to you while I'm here," she says gently. "But your dad's right. I'm only staying for a little while."
Riley's face falls. "Why?"
"Because I'm traveling, remember? Seeing new places. I've got a lot of road left to cover once my car's fixed."
"But you could stay HERE. And see THIS place. It's a really good place."
"It is," Morgan agrees. "But sometimes the journey is the important part."
Riley thinks about this. "Can I come with you?"
"No," I say immediately.
"Why not?"
"Because you have school and friends and a turtle named Mr. Shellby who would miss you."
"Mr. Shellby isn't MY turtle—"
"And because I said so. Bed. Now."
She sighs dramatically but gives Morgan a hug that nearly knocks her over before trudging toward the stairs.
"Night, Daddy. Night, Morgan."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," Morgan calls after her.
I wait until I hear Riley's bedroom door close before turning to Morgan.
"I'm sorry. She's... a lot right now."
"She's perfect," Morgan says simply.
"She's trying to convince me to marry you, so her judgment might be slightly off."
The words are out before I can stop them, and Morgan's face flushes pink.
"I heard," she admits. "Earlier. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but she wasn't exactly quiet about it."
Of course she heard. Of course.
"Right. Well. Just so you know, I'm not actually planning to propose to someone I met this afternoon."
"That's... probably smart."
"Though if I was, Riley's already decided you're perfect, so you'd have her vote."
Why am I still talking? What is wrong with me?
Morgan's smile is small but genuine. "Good to know I have her approval."
There's a moment where we're just standing there, in my kitchen, and I can't help but notice how close she is. Close enough that I can see the way her hair catches the light and the curve of her plump lips.
I take a step back.
"Feel free to use the living room, kitchen, whenever," I say, falling back on practicality. "TV remote's on the coffee table. There's coffee in the morning. I make it around six but help yourself whenever."
"Six?" She looks slightly horrified.
"Riley's an early riser. Pre-K hours."
"Ah. I'll try not to be in the way."
"You won't be." I run a hand through my hair, suddenly exhausted. "I should check on Riley. Make sure she's actually in bed and not plotting your permanent residence."
Morgan laughs. "Goodnight, Casey."
"Goodnight."
I head upstairs, checking on Riley, who is, miraculously, already half-asleep, before going to my own room and closing the door.
My phone buzzes again. My dad.
*Your mother says to give her our love.*
*Dad, I'm not dating her.*
*Not yet.*
I don't respond. Just set the phone on my nightstand and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
This is fine. It's a few days, maybe a week. I'll fix her car, she'll pay what she can, and then she'll be gone. Back on the road to wherever she's going.
Riley will be disappointed, but she'll get over it. Kids are resilient like that. And I'll go back to the way things were. Just the two of us. Safe. Predictable. Exactly how I built it.
The house settles around me, and I can hear the faint sound of water running. Morgan is now in the bathroom, probably getting ready for bed.
A stranger in my house.
A beautiful stranger who my daughter has already decided should be family.
This is fine.
I'm in complete control of this situation.
I'm not thinking about hazel eyes or the way she smiled at Riley, or the fact that when she laughed, something in my chest loosened that's been tight for three years. Not thinking about any of it.
The water shuts off, and a door closes.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
It takes a long time.