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His bashfulness does something to me and—my God—I want to crawl over this table and kiss his red cheeks. I shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth instead.
“Remington, this is too much. It’s really not necessary. I don’t expect you to cook or wait on me.” I shake my head. “It’s much appreciated, but—”
“I like cooking, and I want to.” He shrugs a shoulder before giving Isabel some strawberries.
I almost fall over. How do three little words light me up from within? He wants to. Not “has to”. Not “obligated to”. Wants. To.
First, I fired him. Then, I was terse when he came back. Yet he’s here, cheery as can be.
The ice around my heart thaws a bit. Maybe he’s not callous under that prince-charming exterior. His only responsibility is Isabel, and yet he considered me when making breakfast.
Usually, my mornings are a rush of activity with one goal in mind—get Isabel to daycare and then to work on time. This morning is relaxed and stress-free.
“Look, I’m really sorry I was abrupt with you before. It’s only day one, and you’ve impressed me. Which is a really hard thing to do.” Because my standards are unreasonably high.
“No apologies necessary. You were concerned for your daughter. Wanted her to have the best.” His eyes volley between me and Isabel eating the squished food in her hand.
She offers it to him. The gross, slobbery food that I pretend to eat, he actually chews and makes delightful faces as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. With every bite he takes from her hand, a confident glint builds in her eye and her legs kick in excitement. He’s been with her for less than an hour, and they’ve already built a rapport.
Tears burn in the back of my eyes. This is exactly what I wanted, and yet it’s so much more. His interactions with her … are magical.
Remington turns to me, catching my stare. “I understand your concerns and admire you for it. A lot of people, especially when stressed, just want to hand the kid off to the first person who shows up. And I don’t find fault in that. I don’t have to be a parent to know that raising children is difficult. But you’re willing to sacrifice for your child, and that’s what a parent should do.” The conviction in his voice tells me he’s seen some shit. “I know you’ve been on your own, but I’m here now and you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”
For the first time since I had Isabel, I feel seen. It’s as if my head keeps dipping underwater and I’m on the brink of drowning, but Remi just threw me a life jacket and rope. When I breach the surface of all the things that keep me under, I take a full, deep breath.
That’s when I know I’m a goner. The melting ice around my heart turns into complete global warming. It takes everything in me to sit quietly and eat when all I want to do is hug the crap out of him.
“Thanks.” My voice is small because I’m still trying to figure out his angle. No one is this passionate about their job. Are they?
I guess I am and I certainly know Jay is, but it’s our company. We’re steering the ship, but it’s on me if it sinks or sails.
“Hey, I wanted to know if you need me on the weekends,” Remington says, taking me off guard.
This whole morning has me surprised.
“I was under the impression that those are your days off unless by special request.”
“That’s how it is in the contract, but I don’t mind if you need me on the weekend. I do have a thing on Sundays, but I’m free most Saturdays.”
“Really? You’re a young guy. I’m sure you have a life outside of work.” This is just an innocent observation. I am not fishing. I’m not. Though, I suppose I wonder what this “thing” on Sundays is.
“When you love your job, your job is your life.”
I’m about to protest when he raises an eyebrow at me. Touché, Hot Manny. Touché.
When a foul smell hits my nostrils, I know my easy morning has ended. “Smells like someone needs a diaper change.” I go to stand.
Remi stops me. “Finish your breakfast. I can change Isabel. Me and poopy diapers are BFFs.”
I make a face because she’s my whole heart and it still makes me gag sometimes.
“Yeah, that was a stretch, but seriously” — he gives me an earnest look — “I got this.”
When I get up to bring my plate to the sink, he tells me he’ll get it later. I don’t want to let him because I can do it myself, but his words echo in the back of my mind. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
I decide to let go of the need to complete this small task. Easier said than done because just leaving my mess feels wrong. I hold my plate and hover over the sink as my head yells at me to wash the damn thing and tidy the kitchen before I go to work. The longer the dish sits, the harder it will be to scrub clean later.
This isn’t about a dirty dish at all. It’s about me needing to have micro control over every aspect of my life. Can’t I let it go just this once? Could I trust someone I barely know to take care of it for me? The uncertainty weighs heavy on my shoulders, and I vacillate. It’s aggravating.
