6. Theo

6

THEO

The man scowling back at me looks like shit.

Looking in the mirror, I touch my cheek. Need a shave.

Damned genetics making a single day without shaving make me look like a vagabond.

Down the hall, there's pitter patter of little feet.

Lessens the blow of my poor self-perception, knowing Bonnie is rushing to see me.

I stand up straighter and lean on the bathroom counter with the matching jack-and-jill sink. Meant for a husband and wife, surely.

But when you're a middle-aged bachelor single dad, the natural conclusion for these sinks is one for yourself and one for your child.

The more time I can spend with someone, the better. Loneliness sets in too easily these days.

Bonnie leaps into the doorway. "Boo!"

"Oh, my!" I shout with a hand to my chest, pretending she's got me.

"Did I scare you?" She grins, putting her hand on her knees.

"Yes, I'm afraid I might pass out."

Bonnie laughs and comes over to me, grabbing my arm. "Daddy, it's just me."

"Thank heavens."

I bend over and grab Bonnie's stool out from its place tucked away between the toilet and tub. "All right, love, time to brush your teeth."

"Ugh. I hate brushing my teeth," she grumbles, leaning up against the sink.

I put the stool before the sink and pat it. "One day, you'll realize toothbrushing is preferable to cavities. Now up."

Bonnie huffs and climbs the two steps so her torso is above the sink. "I'm just going to lose all these teeth anyway. What's the point?"

"It makes your father very happy." I pick up her Paw Patrol toothbrush and squeeze out the bubblegum flavored toothpaste for her.

"Oh, okay, I'll do it, then."

I hand her the toothbrush. "Thank you." I know I shouldn't be bribing her with my happiness, but for the small things, surely it's all right. "You have no idea what this means to me."

Bonnie rolls her eyes. "Don't be dramatic, Daddy."

I chuckle as I ready my toothbrush.

Bonnie waits until I start brushing to brush herself.

We watch each other in the mirror, scrubbing our teeth and making faces at each other, which causes the foam to cluster at the corners of our moths. A little tradition we've had since she started brushing her teeth by herself.

I already feel the little traditions slipping away as she's gotten older, now a first grader and starting to develop her independence.

However, since our transatlantic move, Bonnie's strengthened her grip on me. On the routines and habits we've had in the years since Esme's disappearance from her life.

Slow. We're going slow through these changes. Though it would help the books if I started working on getting my new investment firm off the ground as fast as possible, my daughter is my priority.

We aren't wanting for money. But it's not nearly as abundant as it was when Wallington Limited was at the top of the food chain.

And it's my own damn fault. I let my brother get away with bad behavior for far too long until there was no option but to dissolve the company.

I'm thankful in the last few years, I started paying more attention to my own books than the company's. Now I have the capital to start my own firm and provide a handsome life for my daughter.

Still, I'm on my own here. No family, no partner. I've got to keep things in check. For Bonnie.

All of my life is now for Bonnie. It was my choice, at the end of the day.

Doesn't mean it's not overwhelming, though.

Bonnie spits into the sink, then bears her teeth in the mirror. "They don't look different."

I spit out my toothpaste so I can laugh. "It's a long game, Bonbon."

She shrugs, then climbs up on the sink and puts her arms on my shoulders.

This is routine too. She gets up here so I can pick her up and take her to bed.

I might be the one who has to stop this routine first. Not sure how many more years I have of carrying her to bed. For now, though, I'll cherish them.

"All right, up you go," I murmur and pull her into my arms.

As I walk her to her room, I get flashbacks to that first year of fatherhood. When she was so small I couldn't fathom she'd ever be this big.

Her head on my shoulder feels the same. Heavy and yielding. She knows she's safe here in my arms. Always has.

It was this feeling that really shifted everything for me. Her need for me.

I admit, my idea of a family looked exactly the way my own family looked. My father would be at the office as late and as long as he pleased, while my mother took care of us as it pleased her, and the nanny did the rest.

Esme expected a nanny. And I gave it to her. But the older Bonnie got, the more Esme checked out.

On the flip side, the older Bonnie got, the more I checked in. I couldn't stand my daughter being surprised to see me or the way she wept to let me go.

I'm a father first. Above anything.

Esme did not like it when I figured that out.

I tuck Bonnie in bed, pulling the comforter all the way up to her chin. "All right, my little Bon-rito."

Bonnie giggles at the stupid nickname. "You have to roll me for me to be a burrito."

I place my hand on her belly. "Well, I didn't say burrito, I said Bon -rito. There is a difference."

Bonnie yawns and speaks at the same time. "You're silly, Daddy."

"I know I am." I look up around the room. It's relatively empty. We've only been here half a month. There's still lots to be done. "This weekend, we'll go pick out paint for your room. Does that sound like fun?"

Bonnie smiles. "Yes!"

"What color would you like?"

"Pink and turquoise and bright green."

"Bright green?" I grimace. "I don't know about that."

"With stripes!"

I brush her nutty hair off her forehead.

She takes after me in separate ways. The same hair color. Eye color. Nose shape. Except when you put all the parts together, she favors Esme. Her mother is a beautiful woman. Of face, of course. Heart, I'm not so sure.

Sometimes, I wonder, though. How things would be.

It would have ended eventually. The marriage was destined for a divorce at some point. But so soon? So early? When Bonnie needs two parents, not one?

"Why are you frowning, Daddy?"

I let my forehead soften. "Am I frowning?"

"Yes." Bonnie reaches up and touches my forehead, stroking it softly. "You need to go to bed. I think you're tired."

I smile. "I am, love. I am."

Bonnie tugs on my shirt, pulling me into a hug.

I squeeze her back, kiss the side of her head. "Sweet dreams, Bonbon."

"Sweet dreams, Daddy."

After a little bit of cuddling, I turn out the lights, leave Bonnie's door cracked just a bit, and retreat to my own room just down the hall.

If Bonnie's room feels empty, mine feels like a void. A bed with a white duvet and a nightstand. I'm still living out of a suitcase, waiting for various pieces of furniture to be shipped.

Every movement I make seems to echo in the large room, reminding me just how alone I am.

And the floors creak.

That's what I get for buying a practically antique co-op apartment.

It was the right size for us, though, and straight across central park from Edwin's Upper East Side penthouse.

I already feel so alone in the world, I didn't want to isolate myself further by annexing myself to Park Slope.

I climb into bed, turn out the lights, and do the doom scroll. I feel like I'm too old for such a term or such a practice, but not even I am immune to the smart phone addiction.

Tonight, though, it is worse than a doom scroll. It is a complete and utter K.O. Because, despite my adamance of not wanting any information about my ex or my traitorous brother, I've been sent an article from someone who used to work at Wallington before we folded, our former chief marketing officer, Archie.

I can't tell if this is a passive aggressive maneuver or an aggressive aggressive one because Archie's only sent the link without any sort of lead up or comment afterward.

Archie and I still talk, but I think he's still embittered about how everything went down. Which I suppose is why he's just sent me an article from some sort of lifestyle website detailing the wedding between my ex-wife and my twin brother.

The article opens with a picture of the disastrous couple in front of a dripping sunset. Thank god my brother and I aren't identical, or else this might push me to a psychotic break.

But he's my brother. And he's got my ex-wife, a woman I loved for far too long, wrapped up in his arms.

She's got an expression of abject bliss on her face. Not sure why when my brother's fortune is made up of loans and broken promises, but whatever helps her sleep at night I suppose.

"A Match Made in Wallington," the headline reads.

"Stupid headline," I grumble to myself.

And to hurt my own feelings, I go through the whole bloody article. I read every. Single. Word.

Apparently, they married in Ibiza with three hundred of their closest friends and the dress was designed by Vera fucking Wang and the reception closed out with a million-dollar fireworks display.

An embarrassment of riches, in the literal sense.

By the time I turn off my phone screen, I am aching. My chest, my brain, my eyes.

I've been through the wringer with these two. Over and over again I am reminded of their betrayal that started when Bonnie was only two years old and went on two more years behind my bloody back.

Stories like that aren't supposed to end in massive fireworks displays. They're supposed to crash and burn.

Yet here I am, alone in my bed in New York and they're in bloody Ibiza, shagging the bloody hell out of each other.

I drop my phone on the nightstand, the sound echoing through the room.

Edwin is right. I need to not be alone. Or more specifically, I need a woman in my life.

Getting into a relationship isn't supposed to fix me, but I have worked so hard to be good on my own. I'm a good father. I go to therapy. Not many men my age do that.

I'm a catch, aren't I?

I just don't know how to do it again. To show up and open myself up to heartbreak.

I stare up at the ceiling for a long time.

I want a woman the complete opposite of Esme. No socialites. No one whose version of vacation is never leaving a resort. No one who can't carry on an intelligent conversation or has to check their phone nine million times to see how their picture is doing on Instagram.

No one young .

I close my eyes and cultivate that woman.

Except I don't build her from scratch.

My mind brings up a woman I already know, one I have tried desperately to hammer out of my head and remind myself ad infinitum that she is off-limits.

Abigail Lyons in all her freckled, redhaired glory.

"Too young." I scrub my hands over my face and open my eyes.

Her youth is the least of my problems there, but still, a big one.

Reset. Try again.

Except each time I try again, Abigail appears. No matter how many times I tell my brain no, she is not who I want, my brain says, "Bollocks that. Yes, you do."

And I have to admit, my body relaxes at the thought of her. Each nerve begins to unfurl, and I begin to collapse into the bed rather than bracing against the softness of the mattress.

Fine. Fine.

One night of thinking about Abigail won't kill me. And I can atone tomorrow by forcing myself to think of Esme.

I close my eyes and let the image of Abigail wash through my eyelids.

It's such a specific picture.

Her chin turning over her freckled shoulder, loose tank top laying over her small breasts, nipples poking against mint green fabric.

She smiles at me. That's how I know it's a fantasy. Because she doesn't give me her genuine smiles. They're always forced and uncomfortable.

This is a real smile, one that crinkles her eyes.

And her mane of red hair falls over her back.

I want to touch it, run my fingers through it.

I bet it's so bloody soft.

I need…soft.

Which is ironic because I have an erection as hard as stone right now.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

This is ridiculous. Childish, really, to be so consumed with a woman that I'm getting hard over her, and she's not even in the room with me.

"Bollocks," I mutter and then with my other hand, I grab myself through my pants.

I haven't been this hard in years, probably. Not with any woman I've tried to fill the time and certainly not with my own hand.

What is it about Abigail Lyons? How did it take only one encounter in the aquarium to change everything about the way I see her?

I mean, I knew her as a child, this is absolutely despicable of me to see her any other way.

And yet, when I think of her, it is not Abigail as a child, but as the lithe and elegant woman who challenged me in the kitchen, flaunting her degree, fiery like her hair, challenging me whenever the opportunity allows.

I start moving my hand over my erection, letting out a tight breath as it seems to swell even more.

This is wrong, so deeply wrong, and yet I need to see this through.

As I work myself with my hand, I press a palm over my eyes, relax the muscles of my face. That image of Abigail returns.

She bats her light-colored eyelashes. Her pink lips part.

In my mind's eye, suddenly, she's naked, and I can't look down, even though it's pretend, I can't .

She's Edwin's daughter.

The funny thing about the brain, though, is when you tell it not to do something, it fixates on doing it.

I grip my cock harder and pull as I imagine her beautiful body.

Is it too covered in freckles the way her face is? Could I kiss every single one and make constellations across her soft, pale skin? And what does she look like laid out in absolute surrender, her body flexing and relaxing, chasing the orgasm that I could–

"No, no, no," I mutter to myself.

I can't come over this, I can't.

But my hand doesn't stop moving up my shaft.

"Bloody hell, bollocks."

As I imagine Abigail embracing me, pulling me on top of her as if she cannot be close enough, the orgasm embraces me too.

A sound manifests at the back of my throat, choking and surprised and pathetic, and I spend into my pants, wishing it were something warm and wet and Abigail .

I don't move for a long time, letting my cock turn flaccid in my hand, my arm over my face, and my seed turning cold.

I am a grown man. This is my room. And what happens here is my business and mine alone.

If I can keep my attraction confined to these four walls, then there is nothing to be ashamed of. Right?

Except thoughts are not so easy to tame. I cannot leave my brain behind, which means my fantasies will haunt me everywhere I go, all damn day.

Abigail will haunt me everywhere. All the bloody time.