Page 20 of The Write Choice

“This whole room is for me?” My eyes are wide, and my hand is shaking slightly, so I shove it under the opposite arm and squeeze it.

“You were always setting up that easel in different places around the house. We never had space for a studio, and I know you didn’t want to rent one and spend the time travelling there and back.”

How had he known that? We never talked about it. It seemed silly to rent an entire space for a hobby I didn’t have time for on top of driving back and forth in unpredictable traffic.

“Then, you set up the easel less and less,” he’s saying, still looking around the room. “I always wondered if it was because you ran out of time, or if it was harder with two kids once Christine came along. Maybe it was just a pain in the ass to set it up and take it down over and over again. Or maybe you worried that the kids would get their hands on it if you left it out. But now you can use this room and then close the door.” He pats the door with his hand to emphasize it.

My gaze lingers on him for a second, then I turn around to see everything again, my eyes snagging on each thoughtful gesture in turn. When I face him, he’s staring at me, looking like a kid waiting for approval.

I should tell him I’m overflowing. I should tell him between this and the kids’ rooms and the painting in the entryway, my heart is wrung dry. I should tell him how I’ve always wanted a space exactly like this, but never had the money to do it for myself when I was single, and then never could find the time after the kids were born.

But the truth is that there’s a huge part of me that’s also skeptical. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make use of this space as much as he thinks. He promised me he’d be around more often a few weeks ago when we settled on this two-month trial period in Leade Park and then proceeded to disappear just as much—if not more—than before. Or, what if he actually is going to be around more often, but I end up hating it here in this quiet suburb anyway?

He breaks the silence. “Do you like it?”

I remain silent for a moment, then my gaze lands on him. “You said I could have the entire night to do whatever I wanted?”

His smile is tentative, though a little relieved. “I did.”

“What about dinner?”

“Pizza.”

“Bedtime?”

“You saw those beds. I’m not going to struggle to get the kids in them.”

I hum, looking around the room again, then I eye him. “Headphones?”

He walks past me to a small set of drawers I hadn’t noticed earlier. He opens the top drawer and pulls out my black headphones and puts them over my ears for me. His fingers run gently along my jaw and come to rest on my chin, tipping it up.

When he speaks, his voice is muffled by my headphones, but I can hear him plainly all the same. “Enjoy it, Cat. You deserve this and more.”

I can’t help the soft smile that plays at my lips. His eyes drop to it, and I could swear he soaks it up greedily, cataloging it for later.

We stand like that for another minute, until a crash sounds from the upstairs bedrooms followed by a wail that sounds like it could come from either child. I grimace, but Brandon plants a chaste kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I’ve got it,” he says, and swiftly leaves the room, making sure to close the door behind him.

Chapter 7

Brandon

The kids and I are both shocked to find the thin crust pizza cut into squares rather than huge triangles, and too crisp throughout to be folded in half, like proper pizza slices should be. Luckily, neither kid is picky enough to turn down any combination of cheese, sauce, and crust, so dinner goes pretty smoothly.

I consider knocking on Katie’s door to see if she wants to eat but decide against it. Her desire to be uninterrupted is implied by the absolute silence coming from the room and the fact that she hasn’t shown her face in hours. It’s also possible that she discovered the drawer of her favorite snacks I stocked last week. I plan on keeping that shit stocked, too. If her therapist says snacks help, she can have as much as she wants.

I make a mental note to ask her if she’s planning on finding a new therapist out here, too. I forgot about that little detail.

While the kids are eating their pizza and laughing at the stringiness of the cheese falling off the slices, my phone rings. It’s probably Daniel calling to see how things are going, so answer it without looking.

“B,” my brother’s voice comes over the line. He sounds strung out, and I groan internally, wishing I had checked the caller ID before answering, though I know I would have answered all the same.

The kids are occupied and talking to each other. I use the opportunity to quickly cross the room so they can’t hear me. “Shane.” My voice is clipped.

“Hey, man. I kinda hit a rough patch. I lost my job,” he says. He had been working at a convenience store last we talked.

“How did that happen?” I ask.