But before I leave, I turn in the open door, my hand firmly clenched around the outer edge, and lean back into the apartment. Maria is surprised by the motion and, as a result, doesn’t have time to put up her defenses. Instead, I’m in her space—enveloped in her smell and, hopefully, trapping her with my own. She might have thought I was heading out, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving without a detailed plan. I cannot leave without knowing precisely when I’m going to see her next.
“Come to dinner. Friday. At my sister’s house.”
“Family dinner?” She shakes her head, her mind a swirling mess of thoughts I only wish I could read. “Rem, I don’t know—”
“It’s not formal. You know everyone anyway. And they’d love to see you. Plus, there will be other babies and kids and Lexi and plenty of adults to step in so you can enjoy a dinner with two hands.”
“Rem—”
“Please?” I find myself whispering, the want hanging plainly in my voice.
Her head bobs back and forth for a moment of torture, but in the end, finally, she gives in. “All right. Text me the time and address. I’ll be there.”
“I already did.” I smile unabashedly. I’m proud-as-a-fucking-peacock for convincing her, and to be honest, I feel no need to hide it.
“What? When?”
“When I was getting my shit together. While you were with Iz.”
Her cheeks carve into a smile, and I feel the expression all the way in my chest. “You’re cocky, you know that?”
“I’ve been told before.”
“Well, you need to be told again. Dear lord, the ego of Remington Winslow is going to be the size of a semitruck by the time I’m old and gray.”
I chuckle. “Fine by me. As long as you’re at dinner on Friday night.”
“Like I said, I’ll be there.”
The best part is, I believe her. I can see it in her eyes that she’s going to follow through.
And I’m the lucky son of a bitch waiting on the other side.
Friday, October 11th
Maria
“Here goes nothing, Izzy girl,” I whisper down to where she sits cozy in the baby carrier strapped to my chest, but as I start to lift my hand to rap my knuckles against the fancy wooden door in front of me, something makes me pause. Hesitate.
Truthfully, my heart is in my throat as I stand on the threshold of Winnie Winslow’s Uptown brownstone, memories swirling about a young girl doing something very similar years ago.
Of course, then, I didn’t have a baby in tow and, ironically, felt like I knew myself well enough to take on a family of this size. Back then, Isabella and I waited with bated breath for sixteen-year-old Remington Winslow to open the door to his childhood home. For me, it was because I was in love—starry-eyed, notebook-doodle-causing, heart-thumping love—with one of the cutest boys I’d ever known.
Isabella seemed to have a little crush on Remy too, but even in her preteens, I imagine she saw the way I looked at Remy and understood it. It was powerful, all-encompassing. So, for her, the excitement came in the form of three seriously fine-looking younger brothers and her then-good-friend Winnie.
It’s crazy that I had more confidence as a teenager than I do now, but I’ve entered a whole new phase of life that I’m still trying to sort out.
I don’t know who I am or who to be or who I wish I was. All I know is that if I don’t get up in the morning and love Izzy with all I have, no one else will. I imagine that’s how Remy felt back then, all those years ago, having to be the head of his family since his father took off.
Sure, Isabella’s and my dad took off, too, but it was shortly after Isabella was born, and I was barely four. Plus, I only had one sibling to watch out for, and the memories of our absent father were foggy at best.
The thought makes me look down at Izzy again, and my heart aches with the irony that she had a dad who wanted to be there for every waking moment of her life, but he got taken away from her too soon.
You have to cut this out, I silently coach myself. Now is not the time to go there, of all places.
I inhale a deep breath.
I can do this. I can.
Bouncing Izzy up and down to give her a little bit of faith in my feelings, I smile big and dare myself to be bold. Dare myself to lean into the moment and just take the night as it comes.
It’s a big ask, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to. But I’m sure as hell going to try.
Although, before I can bite the proverbial bullet and knock on the door, my phone buzzes in my bag. I juggle Izzy enough to pull it out of the front pocket of her diaper bag that’s slung over my shoulder and check the screen.