Page 40 of Worth the Try
Is it wrong to be jealous of a five-year-old’s bathtub? Because I am.
It’s easily half an hour before she gets out. She pulls on her nightgown and I brush her hair to pull it into loose space buns at the top. Naturally, she talks me into reading her a bedtime story, so she runs down to get Ansel’s permission first. Three reads of her favorite three books later, we’re done.
“G’night, Elodie,” she says sleepily, rolling onto her side and tucking her legs into her chest. She kisses her bear’s head, then leans down as if to hear what he’s saying. She nods, then looks back up at me. “Kata says g’night, too.”
I smile. “Good night to youandto Kata.”
She beams, and with a loud yawn, closes her eyes and wiggles under her comforter.
I retreat, clicking off the bedside lamp and turning on the small fan that rests on her chest of drawers. She’s alreadyinstructed me to crack the door, so I do as requested, then make my way downstairs.
Ansel’s voice floats up as I go. “Are you sure? Well, no, but I thought—fuck.” A long pause. “You can’t be serious.” Another pause. “Well, I’d like to see her fucking try.”
Who is he talking about?
“Okay. Yeah. Bye.” He curses and throws the phone, sending it flying into the couch at such a high speed that the sound is audible.
I freeze halfway down the stairs, certain he’ll see me. But he doesn’t. He turns in circles, clearly at a loss.
“Fuck!” he whisper-shouts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Then he sinks into a crouch, running his hands through his hair.
I don’t know what to do. Do I go to him, ask him what’s wrong?
Nope. I’m all out of bravery. Used it up last night. Not ashamed of it, either. Whatever is going on, it’s not my business.
I back up the stairs quietly, then start over, being loud and hoping he hears me.
It works, because by the time my feet hit the hardwood of the downstairs floor, he’s straightening beside the couch, pocketing his phone, and attempting to look like all is well.
“How’d bedtime go?” he asks, a strained smile on his face.
I give him one of my pageant smiles, the one I use when I’m trying to make sure everyone is having a good time. Mom drilled it into me for years, and for the first time ever, the smile leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Forcing my voice to sound normal, I answer, “Great! Three reads of three books.”
He huffs a laugh, and it’s almost genuine. “Sounds like my Rosie.”
We stand there, looking at each other, for what feels like an eternity. And I must be the dumbest woman on the planet, because I actually say, “Are you okay?”
Surprise coats his features. “Me?”
Something about that—the way he’s surprised—hits a tender part of my heart. “Yeah,” I whisper. “You.” Does anyone ever ask him how he’s doing?
He sticks his hands in his shorts pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I… No.” With an audible swallow, he looks away from me.
It stings a little, but I swat the feeling away. He owes me nothing. “Do you want to talk about it?” Instantly, I want to scoop the words back in my mouth, but there’s no going back now. I know one thing: I am not telling him what I heard.
“Talk about it?” he repeats. “Um.” He coughs, then runs his hand through his hair again. “It’s… No,” he breathes. “Thank you. Truly. But…” He grimaces. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’snotnothing, but, ah, no.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “No need to feel weird about it. It’s totally fine.”
He exhales loudly, his shoulders visibly drooping. “Thanks.”
Be patient with me.He said that last night. Well, this definitely counts as being patient.
“I’m going to go,” I say, hitching my thumb up and over my shoulder. “Curl up with my laptop and do some research.”
His brow furrows. “Research?”
“Yeah. For my business.”
