“She’s right, Trin,” says Christy. “There’s always hope.”
RYAN HAS CONTINUED to come by a few days a week. One evening, as the three of them sit on the carpet, building block towers for Connor to knock down, he tugs at the cuffs of his sweater and asks quietly, “That was a lie, right? About me not being his dad?”
Angel nods. “I’m sorry.”
“I knew it.” A smile twitches his thin lips.
Ryan has, to Angel’s surprise, become a good friend. She doesn’t confide in him, and they still have little in common, but he is the only person as interested as Angel in the details of Connor’s growth, and he seems to be doing a lot of research on early-childhood milestones.
“Come here, doodarooni!” As Connor crawls toward him, slapping the carpet at great speed, Ryan spreads his arms. “Hey there. Come to Dada.” He shoots a fearful glance at Angel, as if to gauge her response.
Alarm frills through her, then fades—not entirely, but enough to allow her to feel a kind of warmth, like an open palm against her heart. Ryan wraps Connor in his arms and tips him back. Connor’s eyes flutter, and he retracts his arms and neck, chortling in maniacal delight.
Part of Angel, therefore, is not surprised when, one afternoon, her phone chimes, Ryan’s messages coming fast upon each other.
Um, I’m sorry, but U should know I told my mom.
She’s freaking.
She wants to come by tonight. To meet you guys.
Is that okay?
“Dad?” Angel calls outside.
He pokes his head into the kitchen, gulping from a glass of lemonade. “What’s up?”
Her father smells like sweat and sawdust. Recently he has begun messing around with carpentry projects out back—a mini table and a short bookshelf for Connor—using wood purchased with his employee discount and his own father’s tools.
She shows him the texts. “What if she tries to take him? Can she do that?”
Her dad bites his lip. “I don’t think so.” He looks uncertain, though, and rubs his scalp. “What do you know about this lady? Has Ryan said what she’s like?”
Angel shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s a nurse in Los Alamos. And she’s, like, a feminist, maybe? She hates the word bitch.”
“Aw, shit. You think I should call Valerie?”
On the floor, Connor tries to jam the sheep into the wooden frame of his farm puzzle.
Angel hesitates. “No. My mom. I want my mom here.”
“Good. We’ll deal with it together.” He pats Angel’s hand. “Hey. It’ll be fine. No one’s gonna take that baby from us.”
That night, Angel, Amadeo, and Marissa await the arrival of Ryan and his mother. They sit in the living room, showered and dressed. Earlier, Angel and her father made an insanely detailed list of chores—bleach the grout in the shower, scrub cupboard doors, sweep cobweb from hall ceiling—then divvied them up and set to. Cushions are plumped, baseboards dusted, the crocheted afghan folded neatly over the arm of the couch. Her mother brought a selection of Easter-rabbit sugar cookies, which she arranged on a platter.
“Wish my mom could see this.” Her dad reaches to brush a piece of lint from the glass on the doll cabinet. “She once told me her dream was to have every dish clean and put away, but there was always someone there to dirty a glass. Me, usually.”
“Well,” says Angel. “It’s not gonna be perfect for long. That fool will make sure of it.” She jerks her thumb at Connor.
Connor is in his nicest polo shirt and pants, but then at the last minute takes a giant dump, so has to be changed into his second-best outfit, which is just denim overalls.