Chapter Text
He is taking a moment, carving out a slice of time for himself. The lights are low in his bathroom, wrapping him in an almost complete blanket of lavender tiled darkness, save the scattering of childproof candles. He has them lined-up; those flameless plastic ones, at the foot of his bathtub, on the counter of his sink, and all along the wall, making the wet floor glow a soft orange.
He's in the bath, the water warm and pink-dyed, frothing with bubbles. He used up the last of Jolene's bottle of bubble bath and he feels bad about it, though not bad enough to leave the warmth of the tub. Brian will get her a new bottle and a dress to make up for it. He's been told he spoils the girl. In truth, the adorable dresses of various colors and patterns, adorned with animals, planets, or flowers are more for him than they are for her.
Brian can't get enough of buying them, of buying his daughter whatever she wants, things she doesn't even know she wants. Brian didn't have that as a child. He didn't have much of anything. He closes his eyes and sinks his head into the water, forgets painful childhood memories over the course of three counted Mississippi's. Or tries to, at least.
It has been half an hour with no interruptions. Not even siren sounds from the street below their apartment, nor airplanes high above on their way to landing at JFK. Jolene has been put to bed two hours ago, past her bedtime because he came home late and the sitter couldn't get her to stay asleep. He paid the girl well anyway, she lives in the apartment down the hall and she's a sweet kid.
Her mother, Jinkx, has a son in the same grade as Jolene. They're a nice family, always inviting him and Jo to holiday get-togethers, getting Jolene something for her birthday, etc. As he slides his back up across the bottom of the tub to rise out of the water, he's curious to know if Jolene will turn out anything like Jinkx's daughter when she's a teenager. He hopes so.
Brian figures she'll end up carrying the same attitude he did. It is a little concerning. He pushes the thought away, saving it for another time; a couple years down the line, maybe. No, definitely. Parenthood is nothing if not rife with sure-fire consequences.
His knees are freezing, goosebumps rising, as they come to jut out of the water, but that is his only complaint. He is at peace. Brian is a man of great positivity, but he isn't out of touch with reality. He knows it is only a matter of time. A siren bellows five stories below; a warning sign. The phone rings and his eyes shoot open.
Brian stands in the bath, pink foamy bubbles covering his body from his head to his shins and he mutters curses as he steps out. He wraps a towel around his waist, stomps out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, picks up the phone and sure enough, it is the restaurant calling. He's relayed a story of how Justin's meltdown started over, told to come back as soon as he can to calm him down again. Or to fire him.
He's the kitchen manager at a restaurant in Hell's Kitchen. His daughter loves the poetry of this and he does too, tells anyone who asks that he works in Hell's Kitchen and doesn't further elaborate when they prompt him to, he just smiles wider. He's the kitchen manager, and managing means the strange combination of both yelling at everyone and being everyone's therapist.
Honestly, more of a guidance counselor with how most of the chefs act. On their smoke breaks, he hugs them out back and they don't say thanks. There's no whittling down a chef's ego even after years of doing this, of trying. They just squeeze him hard, say their weak apologies into his broad shoulder.
Justin had done exactly that hours ago, promised he'd cool down and not start trouble, but here Brian is, on his way to correct him for the second time in one night. Brian dries off, changes underwear but puts on the same work clothes from hours ago. He rationalizes putting clothes colored by dried sweat on his fresh body as a means to prove a point to Justin.
He doubts the man will even notice. Brian hates to wake Jolene but does it, holds her half-asleep in his arms as he dials Shea’s number and prays she answers. He doesn't want to bother the Monsoons. His best friend, he has no problem with.
"Shea? Hi,” He proceeds to apologize profusely as he begs her to watch Jolene for a little bit while he helps pick up the pieces of Justin’s meltdown. Both figuratively and literally. Brian is sure there are broken dishes in the kitchen, and he hopes they didn't travel out into the dining room. He doesn't want to fire anybody the week before Valentine's Day.
The Valentine’s Day party is coming up shortly now and he’s prepared for it. More prepared than he has been for anything else in his life, and this is a man who prepares to hop out of bed each morning by sleeping in a coiled-up ball each night. If he ventured deeper into the recesses of his mind, he would realize it has more to do with guilt buried as far down as his wife is in Green-Wood Cemetary. He shouldn't take up all of the bed. It's a queen-sized mattress, it was meant for two.
Brian sits back in his chair in the kitchen, rubber pony shoes squeaking on the wood floor. He pushes aside the sewing machine, the stones, and spreads his hands across the cowgirl outfit he's made, admiring his handiwork. He has chunked out a solid two hours every day for three weeks to work on Jolene’s costume, designing it, then sewing it and stoning it, and now putting the finishing touches on the outfit.
He’s put his sweat and tears into this. He’s too good and careful to put in any blood. Come the Halloween party, he might.
“Jo!” He yells her name loudly but kindly, listens for the sound of her dropping her toys in her bedroom and running out of it and into the kitchen. As she rounds the corner of the kitchen island he says with a smile for her to slow down, slow down! but she doesn't. Brian can't fault her for the enthusiasm, he is excited about this too.
Brian picks the costume up off of the table. Both the shirt and pants are light pink with a mock-cow print in a darker, dull magenta, adorned with red piping and red fringe, black buttons on the shirt's two front pockets.
He holds the shirt under his chin, the pants over his stomach. “How’s it look, pumpkin? Be honest.”
“It’s perfect!” Jolene eyes it with awe and he hands it over to her, drops a matching tiny Stetson onto her head. She's been wearing the boots he got for her for weeks now, as if they're the only pair of shoes she owns. He has to pry the spray-painted pink boots off of her feet before she gets ready for bed.
She hugs the shirt and pants to her stomach, twirls around. Brian laughs, claps his hands as she moves in what he assumes to be what she assumes to be a square dance. He makes a mental note to search for square dancing lessons, and the thought of doing a father-daughter thing straight out of the Midwest delights him. He intends to make time for it, visualizes his schedule and what days he has off.
The visual fades away as his daughter starts laughing and he's brought pleasantly back to the present. Jolene stops spinning to run over and hug him, her blonde curls that smell like bubblegum spilling into his face. “Thanks, daddy.”
He enters the classroom ten minutes late to the party. What follows is what has happened since the first day of kindergarten, girls and boys dropping whatever it is that they are doing, whether it is stuffing cupcakes into their mouths or playing with Legos, to run over and stare up at him in wonder.
Brian is the Big Dad. He towers over the other parents, the two teachers in charge, (the principal as well, but he is afraid of how the children would react to this knowledge), and he is bombarded with a thousand questions because of this.
By now the children have some idea of who he is, and of what he does, but the curiosity hasn't quelled by any means. The questions have just become more intricate. Brian maneuvers around them and answers their queries as he makes his way over to Jolene, arms crossed and standing by herself, clearly displeased with his tardiness. He swoops her up and into his arms and she laughs, all ill will forgotten instantly.
"One day that's not gonna work," Davis, a husband to one of the teachers, says with a barely-hidden grin. He's fixing himself a plate at the snack table and offers to get Brian started, to which Brian politely declines. Davis is sporting a navy blue sweater with red hearts all over it, a Valentine's Day interpretation of an ugly Christmas sweater.
The other man's ensemble has Brian feeling more confident about his baby pink slacks and matching button-up shirt, but feels his tan sweater vest and brown blazer is underselling himself. He could've gone all-out. He's glad Jo did. Brian looks over to Mrs. Donigan-Smalls, or Mrs. Milk, as she has the kids call her. She's matching with Davis and it makes Brian giggle, Jolene joining in just because.
"I know," Brian kisses Jo's cheek and adjusts her in his arms, squeezes her gently in a hug. She has cupcake icing on her face and he wipes it off with his finger. "I'm enjoying it while it lasts."
He sets Jolene down after a heartfelt apology and works the room, making a point to greet Mrs. Milk and Mrs. Sanchez first, then chit-chat with all the parents, apologizing for stealing their children's attention, laughing when he's told in various ways that they all get a kick out of it. He's wiping the corners of his eyes after a particularly hardy laugh when he sees someone he's never seen before.
He catches himself staring at her before she can. Not that she would. She's in the corner of the classroom, staring at her phone. The woman looks to be growing more upset the longer she stares and Brian wants to walk over and ask her what the matter is, ask whose mother she is. But he doesn't. Brian has been told he can be 'a bit much'. It offended him the first couple of times.
Brian heads back over to the snack table and scoops strawberry lemonade out of the punch bowl, pours the drink into a mini paper cup. He staves off his want for the salty pretzels next-door to the fruit platter. He might not even be thirty, but he's watching his cholesterol level like he's an at-risk sixty-year-old. He wants to be bugging the hell out of Jolene until he's old and grey.
He pours a cup for Shea, who he can tell by the distinct click of heels to be walking up to stand next to him. “Who’s that, Shea? I've never seen her before. Not at any parent-teacher conferences or plays, or. Or anything.”
Shea grins, mouths her thanks for the punch. She spares a glance at the woman in question. “That would Katya. Anton’s mother.”
“Huh,” Brian keeps his tone neutral. Shea sees right through him but keeps her knowing smile dimmed down. They sip their drinks together. Brian withers a bit at the sour taste on his tongue and Shea wordlessly takes the cup out of his hand, tosses it into the trash can by her feet. His smile is tight in his appreciation, his embarrassment visible.
He feels a flash of guilt over hating punch that the kids were said to have made and he looks around to see if Jolene saw. She didn't, as she's busy showing off her cowgirl boots to Shea's daughter by the toybox. Brian perks up with pride.
“You haven’t seen her because until recently, Anton has been solely in Ivan's custody. I think she's gorgeous, don't you?" Shea's smugness is full-on, she jabs Brian in the gut. "Butch as hell."
What she has said is a lot to process and Brian does so slowly, his eyes widening when he takes in her last sentence. Brian rubs his pudgy stomach for show, but his cheeks turn rosy without his consent. Shea is always right. He wonders how she does it. "I mean. Yeah. She's a beaut."
Shea bumps her hip against his, velvet of her skirt gliding against the cotton of his pants leg. “You should introduce yourself.”
“Hardly,” Brian looks back to Katya, at her toned leg crossed over the other as she sits in a small plastic chair meant for a child. One foot kicks every so often, her sneakers are dark grey and the laces look painfully tied tight. She's wearing black shorts that are tight on her thighs, black leggings even tighter on her legs.
Everything about her looks tight, the only exception being the red hoodie she's wearing that looks a size too big on her. Brian walks Jolene to school, but he can only see Katya running. His head is pounding.
Anton has extracted himself from the game of duck, duck, goose Mrs. Milk started in the middle of the room to be in the chair next to Katya, drawing on construction paper with markers. Brian watches as she mindlessly draws a hand away from her phone to pet his hair for a moment. Anton's hair is much like hers, cropped short and curly, sitting in a pile on top of the head and buzzed on the sides. It's adorable.
Brian can see Ivan clearly in Anton, in their same small, dark eyes, their preference for the greys and browns of business casual. Or maybe it was Ivan's preference, as Anton is wearing a rainbow-striped wool sweater and blue jeans today.
The sight of Anton in clothes that look comfortable startles Brian and he scoffs with a smile. Good for the boy. He had believed Ivan and Anton to be in a similar situation to himself and Jolene and hadn't even considered a mother. If anything, just a vague idea of her. But he has been proven wrong. He is glad for it.
“I’ll do it for you, then,” Shea interrupts his gawking, links arms with him. Brian begins to protest weakly but ends his whines abruptly once she's escorted him over and in front of Katya.
“Katya, baby,” Shea says. Katya looks up from her phone and stands. She's tiny, even Shea is taller than her. Brian brings his other hand to curl around Shea's elbow, squeezes her a little. “This is Brian, Jolene’s daddy.”
“Hi, Brian,” Katya's dismal disposition brightens some and Brian stands taller at being responsible. She offers one of her strong hands to shake.
Shea opens her mouth to warn Katya of what’s coming, but it’s too late, and Brian has engulfed her in a hug. A noise of surprise slips out of Katya’s mouth and she doesn't hug him back. Brian is too caught up in the softness of her hoodie to really notice, bent over and smiling into her shoulder. Her chest is hard and flat against him, harder actually, he's gone soft in his late twenties.
“He’s a hugger,” Shea says, belatedly. Katya pats Brian’s back and he lets go, steps away. Shea lets out a snort, covers her mouth.
“Nice to meet you, Katya,” Brian says. Katya's face is pink. Brian glances sidelong at Shea, who is oozing amusement like she wouldn't miss the rest of this interaction for the world, but she is thankfully swept away by her wife, Sasha. Brian thinks of stopping by the Duane Reade on his way home to get her a thank-you card.
For a second there, he thinks of buying Katya a Valentine's Day card as well. Writing her name in his pretty calligraphy. It is ridiculous and he bats the thought away. He eventually registers the blend of confusion and mild horror on Katya's face and his stomach falls, his joints freeze up.
"I'm sorry. Was that," Brian gestures between them, meaning the hug. Anton glances up at him briefly, squinting at him before returning to his drawing. Brian pales. "Too much?"
"No, it's," Katya waves her hand in dismissal. She offers a tight-lipped smile. "It was sweet. I'm happy to finally meet you, Brian."
His surprise and curiosity must be visible on his face because her smile slowly becomes toothy, and she slides her phone into her hoodie pocket. He can't force down his grin at having her full attention.
"Anton is crazy about Jolene," Katya explains, shaking her head. Her short curls bounce side to side with the movement and Brian marvels at them. He takes a moment to breathe in through his nose, and she smells like hard work and baby powder. His toes curl in his Chuck Taylors, he bounces in place. "He loves how utterly American she is. He thinks she's a miniature Dolly Parton."
Brian gasps a little, puts his hand over his heart and takes a deep breath. "That's the best thing anybody's ever said about her."
Katya doesn't laugh. Instead, she studies him, without caring that it has him shifting on his feet when the seconds keep on passing. Brian swallows. Her face softens and she hesitates, looking like she may or may not say something. Brian takes an encouraging step closer and she touches his bicep briefly.
Her voice lowers. "He said Jolene was the first to become his friend, that she never made fun of his voice, or how he dresses. I really appreciate that, Brian. Thank you."
"It's all Jolene," Brian starts, unable and unwilling to mellow out his proud voice when it comes to his daughter. "You can try to instill morals, and I do, but kids tend to do what they want in the end. And Anton sounds like a good boy. A funny one, too. Jo tells me all the stories he comes up with."
Katya's lips purse and he can tell she's considering him. He puffs out his chest, prompting a curt burst of laughter out of her. Brian feels lucky to have made it happen. He wonders if she laughs often. She pats his chest, pushes him a step back. "We should set up a playdate."
"Definitely," Brian agrees immediately. They share a look and Brian lets it burn into his eyes, saves it like it is already a cherished memory. He jerks his head over his shoulder in the direction of the snack table. "Might I interest you in some child-made punch?"
"Anton told me it's terrible," Katya crosses her arms. She looks as lively, as playful, as he's seen her all day. "I'd love some."
She looks behind her at Anton, lost in his drawing of what looks to be a landscape of the Old West. Brian starts to invite the boy but Katya stops him, cuts his offer short by placing a finger against his mouth. Her finger is warm against him and his eyes close for a second too long.
"All this activity wears him out," She whispers. Her fingertip presses hard against his lips, pushing the flesh against his teeth. Brian nods gently as if to not disturb her finger from its place. "He's unwinding right now. Let's leave him be."
They leave him and the rest of the class, exiting through the door, armed with snacks and punch, promising to return before Valentine's would be exchanged at the end of the party. Katya had said she wanted to look around the school, that Brian should be a decent tour guide. He said he would be.
"It's nice to finally see this place," Katya says around a forkful of cake. Brian eyes her hand as she grips the small paper plate, how her knuckles are white, dappled with blonde hairs. She's looking around the hallways, the Granny Smith apple green of it all, shiny waxed floors and chunky brick walls.
Children's drawings and math-and-science-related charts line the bricks, alongside bulletin boards plastered with teachers' pictures, staff members of the week. It's all so family-friendly, so movielike. He wishes he could've gone here.
Brian agrees silently with a nod, his cheeks stuffed with cookies. Manila brought them in, home-made, and they were the first thing to be on his plate. They taste just like the red and blue frosted cookies they had in December. He hopes she brings in green frosted ones for St. Patrick's Day. Katya squints at him, her eyes almost completely closed, her outer eye wrinkles deepening.
"You don't have to nod," She sets her fork down on her plate. She stops as they begin to turn a corner. "You've been here countless times."
He swallows down his food and looks at his plate and her and back, shrugs with one shoulder. "It is always nice, though. Everything is so pretty."
"Pretty," She repeats. After a moment she agrees, nodding to herself. Brian smiles at that, offers to toss her plate along with his and she hands it to him, waits quietly as he walks the distance to the nearest trash can and back. Her arms are crossed and he has the desire to hug her again, from the front, the side, behind. He pushes it down but dips his hands into his coat pockets for good measure. "Yes, yes it is."
She's staring at a drawing up on the wall and Brian thinks it must be Anton's at first, but realizes it couldn't be, as they're in a higher grade level's hallway. Katya moves slowly towards it as if entranced by the crude caricature of a dog surrounded by the artist's family.
Brian comes to stand behind her, though at a respectable distance. The quietness of the hallway resembles one of the art museums he's taken Jolene to, the contemplative atmosphere wrapping around him and Katya until it is shattered when she brings her hand across the space between her and the drawing to touch it. She spreads her fingers across the paper, her meaty palm masking the body of the dog.
"I was in a bad place. I'm better now. Ivan was more than happy about that," She turns her head slightly as she speaks to him. He traces her profile, her thick eyelashes, her sharp nose, her plush lips. From the side, her hoodie covers her neck and Brian is a little miffed that her Adam's apple is hidden from view. "I'm sure you have noticed he's not the most loving father."
"He seemed somewhat strict," Brian says hesitantly, attempting not to step on any toes. He's surprised at what she's said, doesn't know what to make of it. "I guess, yeah. Anton didn't seem too thrilled the times that I saw him before. With his dad."
Katya scoffs. Her fingers curl on the drawing and then she pulls away, tucks both hands into her hoodie pocket. She turns, eyes him up and down. He thinks he can see one of her knees twitch in her leggings but shoots his eyes back up to hers before he can dwell on it.
She's silent for much longer than he can stand, and he works with egotistical foodie types/is in the process of raising a little girl, two demographics that play the stewing in silence game better than anyone else. In another life, he thinks he would hate her. In this one, he's enthralled.
"I'm underdressed," She says, monotonous. It takes a moment to register that she's made a joke because of her blank facial expression, but when it does register he's laughing, harder than he was ready to with her. She smirks as she watches him, draws her hands out of her pocket to have her arms at her sides. Her shoulders shake first, then she joins in, louder than earlier, a little wheezy.
A teacher pops her head out of a classroom door to silence them but it only serves to make them louder. Katya takes his hand to lead him out the closest exit door.
They stand under an awning, witnesses to the busy street across from them, to the grey sky hanging lowly overhead. It bleeds greyer the longer they watch the clouds roll by, a winter storm sure to fall upon the city. Brian doesn't know how Katya stands it, in her little sporty outfit.
He's longing for his heavy fleece coat that is currently in possession of one of the waitresses who left her own at home today. Jolene has a coat that makes her look like a yellow marshmallow when she wears it, and he knows it to be tucked snugly into her cubby.
Katya suddenly bends over to pull a cigarette pack out of her sock. It is not the most discretionary hiding place, but it slipped past him, and he'd be chuckling if he wasn't breathless at how easily she bends down, at how gracefully she extends back up again. She sticks a cigarette between her lips and pulls a lighter out of her pocket. She must keep a lot of stuff in there.
He bets the jingle of keys he's heard as she walks comes from it, right over her belly. He wants to press his hand against it, feel her breathe under his palm.
"Fingers crossed nobody sees us," She says, cigarette bouncing. Brian does the mentioned gesture in support, smirking when she rolls her eyes. "I would hate to get into fucking trouble the first day I'm at my son's elementary school."
"Mind if I?" He asks, letting his finger pointing to her ankle indicate his request. Her eyebrows raise and she pulls her cigarette out with a drag, quirking her lips to blow smoke away from him.
"Rebel," She says, before bending down again. His eyes flutter, fast like all the thoughts racing through his mind as he contemplates her flexibility. He's going to have to brush his teeth twice before he kisses Jolene goodnight if smoking stinks up his mouth like he remembers. He probably will have to shower and change his clothes too.
He hasn't smoked since he was a teenager, but the set-up was much the same, out of sight from teachers, from straight-laced kids. Katya hands him a cigarette, and it takes a couple of tries to light it, the problems coming from his end. It isn't quite like riding a bicycle. She tells him to breathe in and he does, staring into her eyes and lightly wrapping his hand around her wrist. The fire catches, eventually, and he lets go.
She looks back at the cloudy sky. It's not even two o'clock but the sky is brewing a dark, murky black now. They can hear the rain before they see it, pitter-patters on the tin roof of the awning, the school building rivaling the sounds of the car horns and breaks of the city street. He coughs as he smokes, ashes his cigarette far before it is finished, taps it out with the toe of his shoe and buries it under the grass a step away from their place on pavement.
"Brian," Katya starts, still not looking at him. She crosses her arms, taps ashes off her cigarette with the finger that aids in holding it. "I was serious about the playdate."
They return to the class shortly thereafter, right on time for the Valentine's exchange. Brian meets Shea and Sasha's gazes as he follows in behind Katya, forgets them in order to share one more glance between himself and Katya before they settle on opposite sides of the classroom, Katya sitting with Anton, Brian sitting with Jolene.
The rest of the party passes on, Jolene receiving a handful of cards from her friends, almost an entire classes' worth. Brian watches as Anton is handed three. He can't help but cast an irritated glance around the room.
The bell rings and the teachers send the children to their cubbies to retrieve their backpacks and coats, then they thank the parents for coming, and their husbands begin picking up around the room, organizing the food trays on the snack table. Some parents collect theirs, some leave food behind for anybody to take.
Brian pitches in the clean-up efforts, pushing in chairs and bending over to wipe down the seemingly miniature desks set up in a U-shape with disinfectant wipes. He feels like a busboy, again.
"Katya," Brian stops when he hears Anton's voice, sounding more tired than he's ever heard a child sound before. He looks over his shoulder to see Katya on her phone again, standing idle as Anton holds one of her hands. His brow furrows as he watches the exchange, Katya muttering something Brian cannot even begin to decipher and Anton muttering back.
He's dragged out of spectating by Jolene tugging on his pants leg, asking him when they can go. He tells her soon, and to put up the toys that she had taken out earlier. She does so, stomping around like he does; in that moment he can see her growing up be more like him than she should be.
Brian looks back to where he had watched Katya and Anton only to see them gone, but he catches them about to leave, standing in the doorway. Katya's looking at him, gives him a small wave. He rises to be standing straight and gives her one back, holding the wipe to his chest. She smiles delicately, not showing her teeth, and they depart.
"Jolene," Brian begins, locking the door to their apartment with one hand, his other hand curled under her thighs and arm cradling her. She's falling asleep. They spent the rest of the day after school out on the town. They saw a movie that Jolene imagined her mother would've liked. Brian knows for certain she wouldn't have, but he lets his daughter have it, the thought, as she doesn't have much else.
After the movie, they got sandwiches at a deli, ate their early dinner as they people-watched on one of the hills at Central Park. He drops his keys on a kitchen counter, carries Jolene to her bedroom and sets her down on the bed, helps her out of her coat and pulls her boots off of her, sets her hat on one of the four posters of her bed.
She's tired and he doesn't want to make her take a bath, doesn't even want to spend time having her brush her teeth. He's distracted and tired himself. Brian sighs, rubbing his eyes. "How would you feel about calling me Brian?"
"Who's Brian?" Jolene asks, so genuinely that Brian aw's at her, sits down on the edge of the bed and brushes away a lock of hair from where it falls on her face.
She drops her head onto his chest and he laughs a little, hugs her and rocks her in his arms like she's a baby. "That's me, honey."
"Brian?" Jolene tries, her face wrinkling with the unfamiliarity of it. He inclines his head, considering, then shakes it. He lets go of her.
"Yeah, that's weird. Just wanted to test it out," He untucks the sheets and blanket for her and holds them up high, waits for her to crawl under before he drapes them over her. He picks up an assortment of stuffed animals from the ground around her bed to place all around her, as she likes. "You had fun at the party, right kiddo?"
Jolene says yes, wraps her arms around her companions. Brian kisses Winnie the Pooh on the nose and Jolene giggles. "Did you, daddy?"
"Sure did," He kisses her forehead and wishes her goodnight, tells her she loves him and stands up and heads towards the door, turning on the bee nightlight plugged into the wall on his way. He flicks off the light switch when Jolene says something indistinct.
Brian makes a questioning noise and she repeats herself, clearer this time: "Why'd you run away with Anton's pretty mommy?"
"We didn't run away," Brian's blushing and grateful for the darkness. Jolene makes a disbelieving noise and he gasps, affronted at a child, his child, finding him unconvincing. She spends too much time with Shea. "I just showed her around, she wanted to check out your school."
"I like her," Jolene yawns, and he can hear her rolling over in her bed. "Be her friend."
"I'm trying," Brian promises as he begins closing her door. He says one last goodnight to her before shutting it tightly. He turns around and is confronted by a picture hanging on the wall. It is of him and his wife sitting on the floor, holding a three-month-old Jolene. He walks over to it and strokes his finger down his wife's face. "I'm trying."