I know that but I keep trying. You've always been like this. Her voice was gentle but direct. You think if you can map out the worst thing that could happen, it can't surprise you. But all it does is make you live inside the worst thing before it's even real.
He was quiet. Ava is here. She said she's safe. She's in her bed. Dallas is a hypothetical right now.
Your lawyer, who is excellent, will look at this and tell you where you actually stand, which is probably significantly better than whatever the internet told you tonight. "Probably." "Definitely." "And Malcolm," she paused. "You are a good father."
The most deliberate, present, consistent father I have ever seen up close. "That's not nothing." That's not something a modification petition changes. That's who you are. The kitchen was quiet.
Outside, a car passed on the street. "Why are you so good at this?" He said. "At what?" At saying exactly the right thing when I've talked myself into a corner.
A pause on her end. Something in the pause felt careful. "Because I love you," she said. And then, without missing a beat, "You're my best friend." I've been saying the right thing to you for 9 years.
I've had a lot of practice. He heard the pivot. He didn't call it out. "Get some sleep, Malcolm," she said. "Yeah.
Good night, Clare." He put the phone down. He closed the laptop. He sat in the kitchen for a long time because I love you. She had covered it instantly, contextualized it in the next breath.
Best friend, 9 years practice, but he had heard the half second before the pivot. He had heard what was in it, and he understood now that the six weeks were not going to end the way he had originally constructed them in his mind with a calm, mutual conversation over coffee, where two rational adults assessed their findings and reached a sensible conclusion. Something was already happening. It had probably been happening for a long time before either of them put a name to it. The question was what he was going to do about it.