2. Ethan
CHAPTER TWO
Ethan
The apartment feels quieter than usual when I step inside.
It isn’t silent, Oliver has never been capable of that, but there's a difference between sound and presence, and tonight feels contained. Ordered. As though the day has already begun settling itself before I've had the chance to catch up with it.
The door closes behind me with a muted click, sealing out the city, and for a brief moment, I remain where I am, allowing the stillness to register. It's a habit I've never quite broken. Taking stock before stepping fully back into whatever waits on the other side.
Then “Dad!”
The quiet disappears in an instant as Oliver reaches me at speed, colliding with the unshakable certainty that I’ll catch him, and I do, steadying him without effort as his arms wrap around me.
“You’re going to take me out one of these days,” I tell him, adjusting my stance.
“You’re too big,” he replies, entirely serious.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
He pulls back slightly, studying me with a level of focus that's, at times, disarming. It's a look I recognize. One I've seen before, directed at me across a cockpit, across a table, across years that feel both distant and immediate.
“You smell like planes.”
“I was on one.”
“Did you fly it?”
“Not today.”
He accepts that without question.
I set him down, brushing something from his sleeve without asking what it is. “Where’s Claire?”
“In the kitchen.”
I loosen my tie as I move through the apartment, rolling tension from my shoulders. The day has been predictable in the way most of them are. Decisions layered over problems that require immediate resolution, each one addressed in sequence until the noise becomes manageable again.
Claire looks up as I enter, offering a familiar smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re early.”
“I finished what required my attention,” I reply. “The aircraft’s been delivered. The return leg was ahead of schedule.”
She nods, but there’s a hesitation in her posture that doesn't belong to routine conversation. “I was hoping we could talk.”
I shift my weight slightly against the counter, giving her my full attention. “Go ahead.”
“It’s about the move,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “The timeline has changed.”
“When?”
“A week. Possibly less. My fiancé’s company moved everything forward.”
I absorb that without reaction, though the implications begin arranging themselves immediately. A week isn't unworkable, but it introduces variables I’d have preferred to avoid.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry,” she adds, more quickly now. “I wouldn’t leave like this if I had a choice.”
“I know.”
And I do.
Claire has been reliable in a way that’s become increasingly uncommon, particularly over the past two years. Stability, where Oliver is concerned, has required a level of persistence I’d not anticipated when I first began looking for help.
There had been others.
Candidates who looked ideal on paper and failed within days. One who resigned because Oliver asked too many questions. Another who struggled with the dog more than the child. One who believed structure meant rigidity, and another who believed it meant none at all.
Each of them had left behind some degree of disruption.
Claire hasn't.
“I’ll stay as long as I can this week,” she continues. “I’ll write everything down… his routine, preferences, anything that might help with the transition.”
“That would be useful.”
It won’t replace her.
But it will reduce the margin for error.
“Dad?”
I turn to find Oliver standing in the doorway, watching us with more awareness than I’d prefer. “Yes?”
“Are you sad?”
I lower myself slightly so that we're level, resting a hand against his shoulder.
“We’re discussing something,” I tell him. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
His gaze shifts briefly toward Claire before returning to me. “Are you leaving, Claire?”
There's no value in avoiding it. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
The change in him is immediate. His posture tightens, his attention sharpening in a way that suggests he's already trying to understand what this means for him. “I don’t want her to go.”
“I know.”
“Can she stay?”
“No,” I say, keeping my tone even. “She has somewhere else she needs to be.”
He looks down, considering that with a seriousness that sits uneasily on someone his age. “Will the next one be good?”
“I’ll make sure they are.”
He studies me briefly, as though assessing the certainty of that statement, then nods once. “Okay.”
Trust, given without hesitation, isn’t something I take lightly.
By the time Claire leaves, the apartment feels less anchored. Oliver has spread himself and his toys across the living room in a way that suggests both intention and distraction.
“Dad,” he says without looking up, “Captain took my sock.”
Naturally.
I glance toward the hallway in time to see the dog sprint past, something blue clenched in his mouth, his tail moving with the enthusiasm of a creature convinced he’s achieved a significant feat.
“Captain.”
He slows, turns his head, considers me, and then accelerates.
I follow, intercepting him near the dining area and retrieving the sock with minimal resistance.
“This isn't yours,” I tell him.
He appears unconcerned. I release him, and within seconds, he’s located something else, my tie, as it happens, and disappears again with renewed purpose.
I close my eyes briefly as Oliver's giggles fill the room.
“Oliver,” I call, already moving after Captain, “this is precisely why we have rules.”
“I didn’t tell him to do it!”
“He doesn’t require instruction.”
It takes longer than it should to recover the tie, and by the time I do, Oliver is laughing openly from the other room, the sound cutting cleanly through the tension.
These moments have a way of recalibrating things.
They remind me, with uncomfortable clarity, where my priorities remain.
Dinner is uneventful.
Oliver talks, as he always does, about planes, about things he’s built, about ideas that are still forming but already important to him. At one point, he asks whether his mother liked the meal.
“She did,” I tell him.
“Did she make it?”
“Occasionally.”
“Was it good?”
“Not particularly.”
That earns a small smile. “Then why did you eat it?”
“Because she made it.”
He accepts that answer without further question, just as he always does when it comes to his mother. He has to rely on my memories, not his own.
I always wonder if my memories are enough.
Later, after the familiar process of getting him to bed, stories negotiated, water requested, objections raised and resolved, I linger slightly longer than usual.
He’s already drifting.
Briefly, I allow myself to think of her.
Then I step out and close the door.
My office is quiet. The city beyond the glass moves with a consistency I've always found useful. Predictable, structured, indifferent to anything beyond its own rhythm.
I open my laptop and pull up the agency. It’s the only one I continue to use, largely because it has failed less often than the others.
The message is concise.
Immediate placement required.
Live-in position.
Long-term preferred.
Experience essential.
I pause before adding one final line.
Must be adaptable.
That has proven, repeatedly, to be the defining factor.
I send it.
Then, after a moment’s consideration, open a second page and begin drafting a direct listing of my own.
I don’t intend to leave this entirely to chance.
Soft footsteps in the hallway interrupt me. “You’re supposed to be asleep, Oliver.”
“I forgot something.”
I look up. Oliver stands in the doorway, holding a small toy plane in both hands. “You didn’t say goodnight to this one.”
I take it from him, turning it over briefly. A small ritual, one that has endured.
“Goodnight,” I say, handing it back.
He watches me. “Mom used to do it too, didn’t she?”
“She did.” He nods, satisfied, and turns to leave. “Oliver.” He pauses. “I’ll take care of this.”
There's no hesitation in his response. “I know you will.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I remain where I am, the pressure of the coming week settling.
I've handled worse, and I will handle this.