Page 19 of Sparks Fly
I laugh, knowing that no matter how much she eats for dinner, she’ll have room for that cake.
Cora talks through most of dinner, which is standard. She’s always got a story to tell.
“We played kickball today,” she says with excitement, making her voice high. I look over at Mark as she launches into a play by play of every part of their game. I’m used to it, but I hope that he’s okay with it. Throughout the whole thing, he nods where he’s supposed to, and acts as if he’s completely interested in the stories she has to tell. I’m beyond thankful for it.
Sitting back, I relax, letting my mind wander as the two of them carry the conversation. It’s what I need after a long day of work, and I hardly ever get it, so I’m going to appreciate it while I can.
When the plates are mostly cleared, she plants her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her hand, looking at him. "Do you like to dance?"
"I've been known to," he says, clasping his hands in front of him.
Her eyes light up. "I love to dance. I'm really good at it." She says this with zero self-consciousness, which is one of my favorite things about her. "Do you want to dance with me?"
"Cora, let his food digest first,” I try to get her to calm down for a few minutes.
"It’s cool, I’ve let my food digest," Mark says. He looks at me and then at her, where she’s already gone to the living room. "I've got this."
"Are you sure? Don’t let her make you do anything you don’t want to."
"Trish." His voice is easy and calm and somehow that makes it more effective. "I’d do anything she asked me to.” He turns to Cora. “Go put some music on."
Cora is already gone, already in the living room pulling up YouTube on the television. She does this all the time so she no longer needs my help. I gather the glasses and the napkins and carry them to the kitchen, and Mark follows with the rest of it, and I get started on it.
“She’ll go easy on me right?" he asks, nodding toward the living room.
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."
The corner of his mouth tips up. "I'll survive, hopefully."
“Good luck, you’re gonna need it,” I laugh as I watch him walk in there.
He does more than survive.
I'm rinsing the last pan at the sink when I look through the window and can see their reflection. What I see makes me stop entirely.
They're dancing. Cora has the remote in one hand and the other stretched up toward him, and he's bent slightly so that his big hand can hold her little one, and they're doing some kind of ridiculous stepping pattern that she's clearly making up as she goes. He follows her lead without argument. When she spins, he spins her. When she demonstrates a move, he attempts it with enough seriousness that she bursts into laughter and has to show him again.
He's sweating slightly. My daughter is giving him a full workout and he's just going with it.
I don't realize I've stopped breathing until I make myself exhale.
This is the thing I didn't let myself think about when I agreed to tonight. Not just whether he'd be kind to her, whether he'd be patient, whether he'd treat her like she mattered. But this — whether she'd look at someone and feel seen. Whether someone would show up for her the way she deserved to be shown up for.
He glances toward the kitchen then, like he felt me watching. Our eyes meet in the window and I don't look away. Turning so he can see me, I mouth the words thank you and I mean them more than I've meant anything in a long time.
He gives me the smallest nod, and then Cora demands his attention back and he gives it to her without a second's hesitation.
After around ten songs, she decides she wants cake, and so do I.
"You did really good getting this cake," I tell Mark. "It might be her favorite, but it's a close one of mine too."
He leans over, dropping a kiss on my lips, letting me taste the sweetness of the cake. "I'll have to remember that."
Bedtime is all about negotiations, as it always is. Cora lobbies hard for one more song and he backs me up when I say it's time, which earns him approximately seventeen kisses from me when we’re alone. She hugs him goodnight, which surprises us both, and I feel a twinge of hope when I see his expression as she does it. Like he wasn't ready for it and didn't know what to do with it and decided it was maybe the best thing that had happened to him all night.
I take her up, run through the routine, answer her questions in the dark while she stares at the ceiling.
"I like him," she announces.
