Page 212 of Where We Stay

Not that I’m expecting a message yet. She said she needed to grab some clothes and a few things from home before meeting us at Mom and Dad’s for dinner. She’s probably racing around her cottage, trying to decide which sweater looks the least like she’s trying while somehow taking forty minutes to do it.

Still, I’ve gotten used to having her here.

Her shit is everywhere now. Hair ties cover my bathroom sink, a pair of brown boots permanently lives beside the front door, and some tiny tub of face cream has appeared in my cabinet. I looked it up out of curiosity and nearly had a fucking heart attack when I saw the price.

For something that small, it should change your entire face.

I haven’t moved any of it, though. I like seeing evidence of her around my house. It feels less like she’s staying over and more like she’s slowly making space for herself without realizing it.

The place feels too quiet whenever she leaves.

Pen comes running back into my room, this time wearing matching shoes. She stops in front of me and sticks one foot out for inspection.

“Better?” she asks.

“Much better.”

Aspen spins, making the skirt of her dress flare around her knees. “Do you think Blair will like it?”

“Blair likes everything you wear,” I tell her, gently tugging one of her pigtails as I walk past.

“She said blue is my color,” Aspen says, following me down the stairs.

“Then I guess blue is your color.”

Pen smiles and smooths the front of her dress before catching sight of her hair in the hallway mirror. She turns her head from side to side, inspecting my work with far too much judgment for someone who wore two different shoes five minutes ago.

“Can Blair braid my hair when we get there?” she asks.

Apparently, everything is better when Blair does it. Pancakes. Braids. Homework. Bedtime stories. I should probably be offended that my own daughter has replaced me so easily, but watching the two of them together does something to my chest that I’m not interested in examining too closely.

I raise a brow at Aspen. “My braids aren’t good enough anymore?”

“Blair does them neat, Daddy. Yours are messy.” She folds her arms before apparently deciding she’s wounded me. “But I still like them.”

“Thanks, Pen. That really softened the blow.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies proudly.

I grab my watch from the kitchen counter and fasten it around my wrist.

“What time is it?” Aspen asks.

“Four fifteen.”

She gasps like I’ve announced we missed dinner entirely. “We have to go!”

“We have plenty of time,” I call as she runs toward the front door.

“Nana said five,” she yells back.

“And Nana lives twelve minutes away.”

“She said not to be late.” Aspen stands beside the door, tapping one foot impatiently while I grab my keys.

Jesus Christ. Apparently, my six-year-old has inherited Mom’s belief that arriving on time is practically the same as arriving late.

I grin at her. “Traitor.”