Chapter 6
Vanessa came out of the bedroom like nothing had happened.
I heard her door click and then her bare feet on the hardwood. She'd changed out of her satin blouse into a soft gray lounge set, her long dark hair brushed smooth, and she was smiling in a way that was supposed to make the apartment feel normal again. The city lights were still blurred behind the sofa and my dad was still at his desk, his silver laptop open and glowing.
"Okay, sweetie," she said to me, her voice light. "It's past eight. Bedtime. Let's brush teeth and get you tucked in."
She didn't look at my dad when she said it. She looked at me, and she reached her hand out toward the sofa like she expected me to take it. I didn't move. The two halves of my book were in my lap, light blue cover up. I'd lined them so the clouds almost matched.
My dad hadn't answered her. His hands were on his keyboard but he wasn't typing. The black mouse sat untouched on its mat.
Vanessa tilted her head. "Sophie? Honey, you had a big day. You'll feel better after sleep."
That was how she talked when she wanted to decide something for me and make it sound nice. I kept my eyes on my dad's back. I could see the tight line of his shoulders under his white shirt.
He stared at the screen for another second, and then he did something I didn't expect. He reached forward and closed the laptop. Not a quick snap. He pressed his palms flat on either side and brought the silver lid down until it clicked. The glow on the desk disappeared.
The room got quieter without that hum.
Vanessa noticed. Her smile thinned a little. "David, you don't have to stop working on my account," she said. "I can put her down."
"No," he said. His voice was low and even. He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'll stay out here."
He didn't go to the bedroom. He walked over to the living room and sat down on the edge of the black sofa, not where Vanessa usually sat, but between me and where she was standing. He was close enough that his arm brushed my shoulder. I felt the cushion dip. For the first time that night, I wasn't the only one on the sofa.
Vanessa stood there for a beat too long, her arms now crossed. The warm light made a soft shadow behind her.
"You're making this a bigger deal than it is," she said quietly, to him now, not to me. "It was just a book. She's tired. She needs routine."
My dad didn't look up at her right away. He looked down at the two halves in my lap. His beard was close enough I could see where it was a little uneven on his neck where he missed shaving.
"It's not just a book," he said.
Vanessa let out a short breath through her nose, like that answer annoyed her. Then she softened her face again and took a step toward me.
"You're right," she said, and she reached her hand out, palm down, toward my book. "It is broken, though. We shouldn't keep trash on the couch. Let me throw this away for you and we can get you a new one tomorrow, a nicer one. Something not so babyish."
Her fingers were almost to the torn edge, the white paper fibers sticking up where she'd pulled it apart. I pulled the halves tighter to my chest without thinking, my socks digging into the leather.
My dad's hand moved before I could even flinch. He didn't grab her wrist hard. He just lifted his own hand and set it flat over the two halves, covering them and my hands underneath. His palm was warm and steady.
"Don't," he said. It was one word, quiet, but his eyes finally lifted to hers.
Vanessa's hand stopped in the air. She looked at his hand on my book, then at his face. Her mouth pressed into a line.
"David," she said, lower now. "You're being dramatic in front of her."
"I'm being here," he said. He didn't move his hand. "She keeps what's hers."
The air in the apartment felt tight, like everyone was holding their breath. The city lights outside didn't flicker. The dark bookshelf behind us was still full and still.
Vanessa stared at him for a long moment, her fingers still curled as if she might still try to take it. Then she dropped her hand to her side. Her shoulders lifted once, a sharp inhale.
"Fine," she said. "Fine. You both clearly need space." She turned, her lounge pants swishing, and walked back toward the bedroom. She didn't slam the door. She closed it just enough that we heard the click, and then the soft sound of her sitting on the other side of it.
My dad didn't watch her go. He kept his hand over my book for another second, then slowly lifted it. He looked at me, his eyes softer now.
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"You keep holding it," he said quietly. "Nobody's throwing it away."
I nodded, and my throat felt thick. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, and the tears that had been sitting behind my eyes finally slipped out without me crying loud. My dad didn't tell me to stop. He just stayed sitting right there between me and that door, his laptop closed and dark behind us, and he let me hold the torn halves until my breathing slowed down.
