Page 9 of The Write Choice

“Yeah, I think she is,” I finally respond. The pit in my stomach grows heavier.

“Do you think bringing her out here is going to make it worse?”

“It could,” I muse. “I have to come out right after Christmas, but she wants to stay here until New Year’s with the kids.” I leave a lot unsaid there, but Daniel knows.

“Are you worried about leaving her alone? You think she might—”

“Maybe,” I cut him off. “I don’t know. I trust her; I really do. But she’s human, too, you know?”

Daniel is silent again before he says, “Well, don’t forget you’ve got us out here. Mac and I want to help. Katie and Jenny seemed to hit it off when you were here for the wedding, too. Maybe having friends and some support will move the needle.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, and then when a car cuts me off, I hold down my horn and yell some expletives I’m not proud of.

“Are you driving?” Daniel asks, unphased. When you learn how to drive in Manhattan, you also learn how to yell at asshole drivers.

“Christine is sick, so I’m picking her up from school.”

“I bet Katie appreciates that,” he says suggestively. The pounding resumes over the line, and, just like that, the tone changes completely.

“Having trouble with the book?” I ask. Whenever Daniel is working something out with his writing, he bounces a tennis ball against the wall. I’m surprised Mac hasn’t hidden them all yet.

He chuckles. “Yeah. I don’t want to rub it in, but it turns out being really fucking happy isn’t great for my signature angst.”

Despite my domestic issues, I can’t fight my smile as I finally pull into a visitor parking spot at the school. Daniel deserves all this happiness and then some. “Well, good luck with that. I’m here, so I have to get going.”

“Let me know what your plans are, okay? We’ll come out and help with the house or whatever you need.”

“Will do. Thanks,” I say, and we both hang up.

I make my way inside the school. I’m not usually the one to pick her up, so it takes a second for me to find the front office. The secretary leads me to the nurse’s office where Christine is laying on a cot, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes almost closed. She’s sick and it’s almost naptime, which is a brutal combination for a toddler.

I take a knee next to the cot and brush her dirty blonde hair away from her little face. She feels warm, and her eyes are a little glassy as she looks up at me. As soon as she sees me, though, she pops up and wraps her little arms around my neck.

“Daddy!” she exclaims in surprise.

I wrap my hands around her tiny body and lift her so I’m carrying her as I stand. “Hey, Chrissy-pie.”

“I got sick,” she says into my shoulder, then burps a little.

I allow myself to grimace since she can’t see me. This could be a rough ride home. “I heard.” I rub my hand up and down her back comfortingly. “Let’s get you home, baby girl.”

On my way out, I nod in thanks to the school nurse who, in turn, shoots me a sympathetic smile. I get Christine secured in the car seat, and as soon as I’ve pulled out of the parking lot, I glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes are closed, and her head is tilted to the side, her chest rising and falling slowly. I shift in my seat, trying to stretch away the lingering soreness in my back from the less-than-optimal guest room mattress. I envy her ability to comfortably fall asleep anywhere.

It takes less time to get home than it did to get to her school, and when I gently lift Christine out of her car seat, she barely even stirs. She sleeps with her warm cheek pressed into the crook of my neck as I carry her inside.

When I enter, Katie is nowhere to be seen, so I make my way back to Christine’s room and gently place her down on her mattress, my back protesting at bending over so far with her added weight.

As soon as I cover her with the blanket, she squirms a little before putting her thumb back in her mouth. She’s sound asleep in a few seconds, so I creep out of the room and shut the door behind me. She’ll probably wake up cranky and hungry from skipping lunch, but it doesn’t seem worth waking her just to make her eat something that might come right back up.

I turn to head back toward the front rooms when I catch sight of Katie in our bedroom across the hall. She sits cross-legged on the far edge of the bed, nearest the French doors that lead out to our small balcony. Her back, which is half-facing me, is ramrod straight. She’s wearing her huge headphones that go over her ears and block out most of the sounds of the house. I bought them for her when she mentioned getting overwhelmed by all the noise the kids tend to make when I’m home.

In front of her is a large sketch pad sitting on the portable, folding easel I bought her for her birthday a few years ago. Her pencil case is open next to her. One of her pencils is stuck in her bun, and one is in her hand as her fingers tap against her knee. She’s studying her work intently, completely unaware of me watching her. Her head bobs slightly to a rhythm I can’t hear, and she narrows her eyes critically.

I haven’t seen Katie with her art supplies since… Honestly, I can’t remember the last time she had her art supplies out.

The window in the bedroom faces West, and the golden, afternoon light is coming through the bedroom windows. It illuminates her and the sketchbook in a way that makes her appear as if she’s lit up from the inside out.

She’s absolutely breathtaking.