Not the smoothest transition, but Mari doesn’t miss a beat. “All done with the ribs. Mental Museum?”
“The Oregon State Hospital Museum of Mental Health,” I explain. “It’s in Salem. Soph and I were planning to go the next time we head over the mountains.”
“It sounds really cool.” Soph sits down with her own plate of dessert and picks up her fork. “Back in the old days, they locked people up and did weird surgeries and stuff. Like in the movie.”
“They filmed ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ there,” I explain for Mari’s benefit. “It was a real mental health institution starting in the 1800s, but it’s a museum now.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Mari picks up her fork. “I’ve never been, but I’ve wanted to go. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have an outing with just the two of you?”
She’s looking at both of us, but I know this question is for Soph.
My kid answers with a mouthful of pie. “You’d make it fun. You know lots of stuff about psychology and weird stuff they used to do. Like shocking people and stuff.”
My inner grammarian resists the urge to point out she’s just said “stuff” three times. I’m just thrilled she’s excited about it and happier Mari’s on board to join us.
I clear my throat. “We’d love to have you.” I touch Mari’s hand again, waiting to see if Soph reacts.
“You’re kinda like family.” Soph grins and forks up another bite of pie. “Girlfriends are family, right?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. And that she just used a word Mari and I have danced around for days. Watching her face, I answer carefully. “As long as Mari’s comfortable with that.”
With the outing, with our relationship. With being so open in front of Soph. Mari looks down at our intertwined fingers for a second, then smiles up at me. “I’m good with all of it.”
There goes my heart again, kicking up like a steady drumbeat. We sit locked in the moment, looking at each other like giddy schoolkids. The chime of a cell phone breaks the spell.
“Soph.” I glance at my daughter. “Haven’t we talked about shutting off your phone during dinner?”
“Dad—”
“Actually, that might be mine.” Mari looks at Soph as the ringing stops. “But that’s my sister’s ringtone, and I’m pretty sure she’s just calling about some changes in tomorrow’s filming schedule.”
The ringing starts again, a different tone this time. Mari stands up and walks across the room to her purse. “And that’s my other sister. I’m turning it off.” Extracting her phone, she powers it down and shoves it back in her purse. “No phones during dinner sounds like a good rule to me.”
She walks back to the table and I try not to notice the sway of her hips. I know it’s just her normal walk, and I’m the one turning it into something sexy.
“You sure you don’t need to answer?” I ask. “If they’re both calling—”
“No, they do that all the time.” She sits back down and picks up her fork. “They’ll keep on tag-teaming me until I answer, which I’m not going to do because we’re enjoying our meal together.”
Soph smiles and returns her attention to her dessert. “I had another appointment with Joel. We talked about my mom.”
My chest squeezes tight, but not with hurt or regret. It’s joy, plain and simple. I’m happy Soph’s working through her trauma and even happier to be moving on with my own life.
“That’s great, kiddo.” Mari dabs her mouth with a napkin. “You know, you can share anything with us anytime about your therapy, but you’re also okay to keep it to yourself. That’s the thing about therapy—it’s private.”
“Yeah, I know.” She grins at me. “It’s kinda fun having secrets.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I’m mostly kidding, but it’s a struggle not to feel flickers of alarm. How close are we getting to Soph not needing me at all?
“I’m just happy you’re happy,” I add because it’s the responsible, mature thing to say. “And I’m also happy we’ve got two kinds of dessert.”
My girls both laugh, and I don’t know what’s more satisfying. How Mari and I complement each other with our different approaches to pre-teen angst or how quickly I’ve come to think of them as “my girls.”
I know it sounds douchey and borderline misogynistic, and I swear I don’t mean it in a “she’s my property” way. It’s just that we work well together, the three of us. Like a unit that was always meant to fit together but never matched up until now.
A chime sounds, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s not another cell phone. Soph sprints to the front of the house the same instant I recognize the doorbell. “I’ll get it,” she shouts.
Mari glances at me. “You expecting anyone?”
“Actually, yes. I loaned my Dutch oven to the Coxes last week. They’re probably returning it.” I stand up and head for the door the same instant Soph swings it open.
Lana Judson’s gaze lands on Soph first. Her eyes go wide as they flick to mine. “No.”
Huh?
“No what?” I ask, setting my napkin on the entry table as it dawns on me Lana’s not alone.
Also, she’s not talking to me. She’s turning to folks behind her, and holy shit…there’s an entire fucking camera crew on my porch. Gabe, Lauren, some lighting guy whose name I can’t remember. I survey the crowd, feeling uneasy. “What’s going on here?”
Lauren’s got her back to me, blocking my view of the woman she’s talking to. The breeze catches a shock of long dark hair, and my brain does a bizarre ping to how Gabby’s hair used to ruffle just like that. How she’d reach up to catch it in one hand, just like this lady’s doing.
Then Lauren turns, and I catch sight of the woman’s face. My stomach lurches. She’s not Gabby, but she is Gabby.
Or Gabrielle or Elle, the reality TV star, the mother of my child, the woman who crushed my heart beneath the heel of her shoe.
My mouth goes dry as I clamp a hand around Soph’s shoulder. “What the hell is this?”
Lana’s reaching for Soph’s hand. “Let’s step out of the shot, sweetie. Right over here.”
Soph doesn’t move, and she hasn’t noticed her mother yet. She looks up at me with big eyes. “Daddy?”
I’m torn between wanting Soph safe beside me and letting Lana take her away from all this. “Go to your room, sweetheart.”
“But Dad—”
“Baby!” Gabby shoves Lauren aside and rushes to Soph, hair flying as she drops to her knees in front of our daughter. She throws her arms around Soph’s waist with tears shimmering on lashes too long to be real.
None of this is real. None of this can be real.
But as Gabby or Elle or whoever the hell she is squeezes Soph and buries her face against our daughter’s T-shirt, the buzz in my brain gets louder. This is happening. Holy shit.
I look at Lauren, needing someone to yell at.