by K. S. Thomas
I’m just placing the last little hair clip among the others, creating a sort of butterfly crown with them, when the door opens, and Lachlan cautiously peeks inside. “It’s very quiet in here,” he observes, scanning the room until his eyes stick on us, still camped out on the floor. Monroe is still comfortably hanging out in my lap, busying herself with collecting rubber bands from the floor and slipping them on her wrists like bracelets.
As soon as he sees her finished hairdo, a surge of recollection moves through his expression. “Of course, that’s what she wanted.” He shakes his head and I see his mouth tighten in frustration, probably at his own shortcomings. “I should have known.”
“Who usually does her hair?” I ask, skipping past the self-loathing and moving on to small talk. Also, I’m curious. Since they showed up here, we’ve heard little about him, less about Monroe and nothing at all about her mother. But I get the sense that’s been intentional, so coming right out with all my nosy questions seems a poor choice for actually getting them answered.
“Depends,” he says, scratching his chin and looking away. “I live with my father’s family back home. They’re old school, keep a large staff employed to run the household, including nannies, so there’s always help.” He delivers this information casually, like it’s the sort of thing he wants to be perceived as totally normal even when we both know it’s totally not.
“So that’s common practice then in Linden?” I smirk. I don’t really expect him to answer. “What about her mother?” The door’s wide open with awkwardness. I might as well walk on through and make it worse.
“Um.” His eyes go from moving around the room to seeking out the floor. “She died. About seven months ago.”
“Oh.” I made it so much worse than just awkward. “I’m sorry.” Obviously, there was a reason no one had mentioned her before now. Why didn’t I ever think for one moment this was it? “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You couldn’t have known.” For the first time in a while, his eyes pause to meet mine.
“I could have,” I tell him quietly. “My mother left when I was four. We never talk about her either.”
He lowers himself to the ground, having a seat across from us. Monroe promptly scurries from my lap and into his, giggling as she practically body slams herself into place at his core, where she fits perfectly. Instantly, her face lights up, eyes gazing adoringly at him as she nestles in tightly and he wraps an arm around her, ever the protective father. It suits him. Fatherhood. I see a lot of dads at the playground and school and the kids’ various activities. As much as you think they ought to, not all men come by the nurturing naturally.
“Was it hard?” he asks, voice low as if he’s trying to keep our conversation from piquing his daughter’s interest. “Growing up without a mother?”
I study his face for a moment before I answer. It’s changing. Becoming more real the longer he’s here, the more depth we seek in our conversations. I thought he was pretty before, now, I’m starting to see a completely different kind of beauty in him, and it has nothing at all to do with his handsome features or his striking blue eyes, and so much more with the emotions surfacing in them. Even if the concern in his eyes isn’t for me, I know the compassion is.
“My father made it easy,” I say at last. “He made our family feel complete every second of every day and I don’t even know how he did it. But he did.”
“What about the milestones,” he goes on. “The moments in a young girl’s life she looks to her mother to guide her through?”
I can’t tell if he’s more scared of having to explain periods or hear about his daughter’s first big crush, but either way, I do my best to set his mind at ease. “Truth is, I didn’t have any expectation of having my mother guide me through anything. So, I always looked to my father for guidance. And he always provided it. He was open and honest and most all, I never felt weird or uncomfortable going to him with my questions because he was never weird or uncomfortable answering them.” I can recall several friends growing up, who were less fortunate with their mothers. “It also helped that my father owns a bookshop,” I add. “Most conversations were followed up with reading material.” I grin. It sounds tedious, but it was wonderful.
“Your father sounds like a remarkable man,” Lachlan says, leaning down to gently kiss the top of Monroe’s head. When he looks at me again, the corner of his mouth is hitched up, creating a lopsided grin so delightfully adorable it makes my stomach flip-flop. “Maybe you could give me his number? In case of emergencies?” he jokes. I think.
“I probably ought to,” I tell him, casting a wary eye around the room which still looks like a storm ripped through it. “You seem prone to those.”
He laughs quietly. “You have no idea.”
LACHLAN
EVERY TIME I COME HOME to the states, I remember how much I miss family meals. We still sit together to eat with my father’s family, but it’s formal and conversation is almost always centered around business. Over the years, I’ve taken to eating alone in my study in the evenings, and most recently, with Monroe, meals have been spent with the staff in the kitchen. My stepmother deems her too messy and loud to sit at the dining table, so we’ve been banished for now. It’s been a blessing to be honest. I don’t miss meals with them at all. I do, however, miss this.
“Hey, Abbas, hit me with that parm while you’re at it,” Chase says, pointing at his pile of pasta as he holds his plate out over the table, clearly hoping his friend will grate a hefty portion of cheese on top of it once he’s done with his own.
Abbas obliges, sprinkling shredded parmesan all over when he does. Abomination number one were we seated at my stepmother’s table. Number two would be Greer and Mallory reaching over each other to assemble their plates with salad and bread and olive oils for dipping. Three, undoubtedly, would be Monroe, eating lasagna with her fingers and casually dropping a handful to the floor every few bites, which Greer has told me repeatedly not to worry about until after dinner. And four is so outrageous, even I’m struggling to wrap my brain around it. It’s Cheese. Hopping and running through the maze of dishes on the table, stealing dropped pieces of food before scurrying to the centerpiece, a giant vase filled with an assembly of flowers, and hiding under the overflow of leaves and blossoms to eat in peace.
“Mo needs more sauce,” Greer says straight-faced as she points at my kid sitting across the table from her. “I can tell because she’s wearing all the sauce we put on her plate on her face now.”
I turn to see what Greer’s talking about. As soon as I see the newest disaster Monroe has created, I start to apologize. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have given her something so messy to eat on her own,” I grumble, reaching for my napkin and hurrying to clean up what I can.
“Dude, calm down,” Chase mutters from my right. “No one here gives a shit. She’s not even two. Everyone at this table knew she was going to find more places to put her dinner than just her mouth.” He points his fork at the surrounding room. “Which is why we’re eating at the girls’ place. No carpets, plus plastic cups. Because Greer spills and Mallory breaks stuff.”
“And now we have Mo, who offers free face painting with marinara.” Greer smirks. “I hope you’ve bought the girl some finger paints back home, I think she’s got a future in the arts.”
Finger painting. Not under my stepmother’s roof. But maybe soon. I glance at Monroe again, still happily playing with her food, swishing her fingers across the tray of her highchair and making designs with the red sauce while stuffing chunks of pasta and veggies into her mouth with her other hand. She’s perfectly content. At ease. Comfortable in her own skin like I haven’t seen her in a while. Haven’t felt for myself either.
Just another reason I know what I’m here to do needs to be done. So she can have this, a proper carefree childhood, all the time.
“No painting yet,” I say out loud. “Not with anything other than food at least.”
Abbas chuckles. “
She did a pretty good job with Chase’s hair wax in the bathroom too.”
“What?” Impossible. She hasn’t been left alone once since we’ve been here. “When?”
“When Chase was watching her while you were out in the hall on that phone call,” Abbas explains.
Meanwhile, I notice my brother is taking faster, larger bites. Presumably to render him incapable of talking.
“You’re a teacher,” I point out the obvious. “People entrust you with their children every day of the week for hours at a time and you couldn’t get through fifteen minutes with one child without incident?”
He gulps down his food, his defenses apparently triggered enough to garner an interest in speaking again. “I teach high school. Teenagers don’t paint on the bathroom walls with hair wax.”
“It’s true,” Greer chimes in. “They use lipstick and sharpies.”
Chase gapes at her. “That didn’t help.”
“Oh, was I supposed to help?” She shrugs. “I didn’t realize. I was just contributing to the conversation. No sides. Just Switzerland. With experience.”
“But I’m glad someone brought up that phone call,” Mallory adds, taking things in a new direction. “I’ve been waiting for someone to mention it so I could ask about it.” She rips off a bite-size piece of bread and swipes it through her mix of olive oil and herbs. “Who is Triston Wallace and why are you trying to find him?”
Chase stops chewing. I can see him from the corner of my eye. His mouth is still full, but his jaw froze the second he heard the name.
Abbas is moving slower. Gradually placing his fork down into his plate, uncomfortably folding his hands in his lap. Me? I’m still eating. Forging on as if I didn’t hear anything.
Until I can’t pretend anymore because the silence is too loud and too awkward around me.
“Why am I getting the feeling I stumbled on some sort of forbidden secret here?” Mallory says, probably trying to backpedal her way out of having brought it up. “Half the table seems to already know about it, so it’s obviously not vault worthy.” She picks up her bread again. “You know what, forget I asked. It’s clearly forbidden even if it isn’t secret.” She giggles at her own joke, but I know she’s just trying to make light of the situation. She has no idea the topic she accidentally opened up for discussion with her curiosity. Family dinner just lost some of its lighthearted appeal.
“Triston Wallace is Monroe’s biological father,” I explain flatly. “I’m looking for him because it’s time his daughter was returned to him.” I put my fork down and push my plate in. I’ve lost my appetite.
CHAPTER FOUR
GREER
Despite everyone’s best efforts, dinner didn’t recover after Mallory inadvertently poked the surprise baby daddy hornets’ nest. The worst part was, Mal and I now had a million new questions both of us were too afraid to ask. Which left us to come up with our own theories all through dishes and after dinner clean-up. It wasn’t pretty. Between the scientist and the girl who grew up in a bookstore, we came up with stories even beyond our own wildest imaginations. And I don’t think any of them were even remotely likely to be true.
Still, it satisfied the need to know enough to call it a night and hope for more rational answers come morning.
Now that I’m standing here, hovering over the coffee maker waiting for it to provide an entire cup of wake-up elixir, I’m not nearly as confident we’ll end today knowing any more than we did yesterday.
Our kitchen is noticeably quiet for a Monday morning. Especially quiet when one considers the coffee maker in the apartment across the hall has been out of commission for the last three weeks. The deli downstairs may serve coffee, but it’s only worth the investment if you’re looking for something warm to hold on a cold morning to keep your fingers from freezing off. And we’re only into September. We’re not deli coffee cold yet.
“This can’t be good,” Mal observes, coming out of the bathroom, blonde hair still wet and wrapped in a towel. “You’re the only one ahead of me in line for the coffee? I’m usually last. Well, first when you consider I wind up standing here waiting for the second pot to brew.”
“They’re hiding,” I mumble, deciding it’s close enough to first cup full and pouring myself one.
“That much is clear.” Mallory pulls herself up onto the counter across from me, feet lightly kicking at the cupboard doors once she’s seated. “But are they hiding because they’re afraid of our questions? Or because they’re embarrassed about how awkward last night ended?”
I shrug having a sip. “Maybe they think we’re embarrassed about last night.”
“Why would we be embarrassed?” Mal makes a face, like she thinks the concept is ridiculous. “Are we walking around with babies who call us mama but whose mamas we are not? No. And we’re also not walking around with babies who call us mama but whose mamas we are not without telling people we aren’t the mamas and that there are in fact, other mamas we’re here to find so that the babies who call us mama but whose mamas we are not, can go back to their mamas. Who we are not.”
“Wow.”
“I know. I had a hard time following that myself, but I think I got it right.”
“They might think that part’s less embarrassing than the part where you were super nosy and asked about the baby daddy you didn’t know was the baby daddy when you asked,” I point out.
“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s not embarrassing. I’m a scientist. Asking questions is what I do. It’s my whole thing. Questions. It’s how I get the answers. It’s how I do the science thing. It all starts with questions. Questions are never embarrassing. Answers, those can be a different story.”
I know she feels this way. And most days, I love that she feels this way. Because I’m super nosy and having a scientist for a best friend and roommate has put me in a position to be present for some seriously intrusive questions to be asked and answered which I never would have had the balls to ask myself but which she happily brings up all under the guise of her ‘science is based on questions’ motto. But, never once, haven’t I known that the questions she’s asking are intrusive and that we’re really just being nosy about things that aren’t any of our business.
“Mal,” I start slowly, taking into account that she’s still waiting on her first jolt of caffeine for the day, “I think maybe the science thing is new to Lachlan. And I also think he’s super private. So, you know, as proper hostesses, we might need to go apologize.”
She mulls it over. “Fine. For sake of maintaining our status as proper hostesses, I’ll go apologize.” She eyes the coffee maker. “After I’m granted a cup by the morning gods.”
“Of course.”
Three minutes later, we’re storming the landing and barging into the apartment on the other end of it.
“We’re here to say sorry,” Mallory announces as the door swings open. “But it’s mostly out of courtesy and not at all because we did anything wrong.”
“Pretty hollow apology,” Abbas grumbles from the kitchen table where he’s eating what looks like soggy cereal. “I notice you didn’t bring any coffee outside of your own mugs.”
“Also, why are you apologizing?” Chase asks from the counter, poised to catch the slices of bread set to be catapulted from their toaster any second. “Other than for the not bringing us coffee part?”
Mallory rolls her eyes and sighs. “My science side was a little rude, apparently.”
“By your science side, do you mean your super invasive questioning regarding my personal business and private phone call you were eavesdropping on?” Lachlan asks, smirking while he strolls out from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He’s holding Monroe in his arms, her hair done in her favorite butterflies and rosebuds style. I think something inside me just melted a little.
“I was not eavesdropping, everyone in the building knows sound travels through the vents and nothing spoken in halls or stairwells is spoken in secret.” She pulls out a chair from the table and ha
s a seat like she’s making a statement. I have no idea what that statement is meant to be, but there’s way too much flair to the gesture to be simply for the sake of sitting down.
“She’s not wrong,” Chase admits. “I know every time Derek in 3d gets suspended or fails a class or gets detention, but his parents sure don’t because Clare in 3f always steps out into the hall and takes the call, pretending to be his mom.”
Abbas nods. “Sally upstairs is pregnant. Hasn’t told Jansen yet.”
“Probably because it’s Micah’s baby. Did you hear them doing it in the stairwell two nights ago?” I add, moving in closer to the table to get a better look at the breakfast spread they put out. It’s not much. Some scrambled eggs. A few pieces of toast. I decide to pass. I notice too late that Lachlan has moved in beside me and I nearly step on him when I back up from the table again. “Sorry,” I stammer when I realize the thing I reached out and held onto to catch myself is his chest. Which is solid and defined in a way I can feel even through his blue button up shirt.
“No worries.” He smiles and I can’t help but notice the way the color of his shirt makes his eyes pop even more.
“Anyway,” Mallory says loudly, bringing the attention back to her. “Are we all clear that I apologized even though I did nothing wrong, and our proper hostess status remains intact?”
“Yes,” Chase answers for everyone. I assume. He’s usually the representative when there’s a group present. “Are we also clear that no one was expecting an apology?”
Mal shoots me an angry glare and I throw my hands up in lieu of a defense.
“Then why didn’t anyone come for coffee this morning?” I ask, tackling the only mystery currently within reach of being solved.
“Because you said you would bring it over here,” Abbas says.