I glower. I know that. I know it’s not anything more. That’s the problem, as I nod and agree to stay when staying is the last thing I should do.
16
After an impossible day of rounding in the hospital, dealing with difficult patients who refuse to make necessary lifestyle changes and wet-behind-the-ears residents, I should be exhausted. Only today I was lit with a fire no amount of caffeine could provide and no amount of grueling work could extinguish.
Shame. Anticipation. Obsession.
Whatever you want to call this insidious, venomous snake inside me. All day it’s been biting holes in my armor, slithering beneath my skin, and making me moodier than I typically am. All because of her.
Honey hair, hazel eyes, tight-fitting black pants that hug her thighs and ass, cream turtleneck that does the same with her perfect tits… she’s going to be my ruination.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” The wariness in her eyes and the stiffness in her posture are keeping my voice soft. My movements light. I fucked up, and for once, I care. And I hate that I care. The way she wouldn’t look at me. The way her eyes stuck on Stella, the kitchen floor, the hallway she was desperate to flee into.
Anywhere, but not on me.
I hadn’t realized what my own need to run last night did to her. I hadn’t thought it through. It’s clear she took it as rejection when it was simple self-preservation. I was trying to save us both. Doesn’t she see that?
No.
I hurt her when she’s already been hurt enough, and there’s no excuse for that.
So against my better judgment, she had to stay.
Stella all but pleaded with her. Elle giving up her free time after work for Stella, teaching her how to make whatever it is they made that smells out of this world amazing, and making my daughter smile when she smiles about as often as I do, makes this even more complicated.
I can do random women. Women who aren’t in my life or near my daughter. Women who likely fuck me because I’m an Abbot-Fritz and nothing more—whether they think it’s me or Luca they’re getting. I doubt any of the women I’ve been with in the past nine years have cared, but Elle did. She cared a lot that I lied to her.
More complications.
She’s easier to tolerate when I’m rude and dismissive.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
Yes, please. Thank you. Where is her bite? Her sassy retort? Nothing seems to hold this shooting star down for long, but last night did something to her.
It did something to me too.
Opening my wine refrigerator, I pull out a bottle of white wine and pour each of us a glass, then some milk for Stella because she drinks it with everything. “What did you make?” I ask, using the oven mitt Elle’s small hand was just in to remove the heavy red top off the dish.
“Chicken pot pie with a biscuit top,” Stella exalts with a noticeable bounce in her step, pride beaming from her. I roll my head over my shoulder to catch her eye just as she sits down at the bar.
“You made that for me?”
She’s smiling from ear to ear, nodding voraciously, and I can’t help but return it when she looks at me like that. The girl I would burn the world down for, suffer through this misery we call life for. Fuck, she’s the reason I get out of bed every day when getting out of bed feels like the worst idea ever. I see so much of her mother in her when she’s like this. Happy and carefree, and that knot that perpetually resides in my stomach feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.
“Bellas, you made this? It looks unbelievable.” The biscuits golden brown and flaky. The pot pie creamy and bubbly.
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I think designing and building that greenhouse was worth every penny.”
She snorts. “You love to design and build stuff. You should have been an architect or a carpenter. I just gave you an outlet.”
“In my next life, I’ll come back as Jesus.”
Elle snorts out a laugh. “Did he just make a joke? Like an actual joke?”
“I’m capable of them every now and then.”
She shakes her head. “No. I would have noticed. That’s most definitely the first I’ve heard.”
“Maybe you don’t find my jokes funny. But if memory serves, I made you smile several times the first night I met you.”
Color stains her cheeks as her jaw unhinges while her eyes simultaneously widen, only for her to curb her reaction just as quickly. Her initial shock morphs into a two can play at this game raised brow.
“Will the real Landon Fritz please stand up.”
Touché. “Fine. You win. Let’s just eat.”
Elle gets out of her chair, and I wave her away.
“You cooked. I can serve and clean up.”
“Very honorable of you.”
“I like to think so. Bellas, tell me about your day,” I ask, scooping a large heaping of the pot pie and setting it on a plate before handing it over to Elle, who takes it with a smile that momentarily rattles my brain.
“Well, let’s see. My English teacher is having us read Othello, which is like meant to be socially impactful or whatever. I get that, I guess. But I’ve read it already, and I can’t stand how Othello’s jealousy and distrust and Iago’s lack of real benefit or written motive for being such a villain ends up being the catalyst for killing poor, loving, trusting Desdemona. I don’t plan to waste my time with a reread.”
I hold in my chuckle. This girl.
“You’re too smart for eighth grade,” Elle notes. “You’re like that in world history as well, and I happen to know you already take all honors courses. Have you thought about doing more independent studies instead of sitting through uninspiring lectures?”
I pause, dish in my hand for a very long beat before I slide it in front of Stella while staring at Elle, wondering at her motives for suggesting such a thing.
“What do you mean?” Stella asks, a scrunch to her brow.
“Stella, you just explained complicated Shakespeare to me on a very adult level. Your English class bores you. I watch you in honors world history. You’re bored there too, and whenever I try to trip you up by calling on you, you consistently give me very intelligent and astute answers. So, have you thought about choosing a topic within these subjects that interests you and applying for independent study instead?”
“I’m in eighth grade. Typically, that doesn’t happen until high school, right?”
“Imagine you’re Indiana Jones, Miss Fritz. What does this world of adventure have to offer you?”
Stella raises her filled fork of steaming pot pie, hovering it over her plate, and then casts her gaze to me. “Dad?”
I shrug, not happy that Elle didn’t approach the topic with me first before discussing it with Stella. She’s not her mother. I’m her father. That’s how this fucking goes. I don’t care how well she cooks. I scoop up a plate for myself and then take the seat on the other side of Stella instead of the one beside Elle.
“I think it’s worth a conversation,” I hedge. “But I’d like to discuss it with your teachers more before we figure out a plan. You might not like all that free time. You already spend too much time alone.” Which she does. Pulling her out of the classroom and away from her peers might not be the best for my girl. Intelligence and boredom aside.