” They stayed like that for a while. Emma’s small arms tight around his neck. Noah trying to memorize the feeling of being needed by someone who still believed he could fix anything. Eventually, Emma pulled back and looked at him seriously. “We’re going to be okay, though, right? We’re not going to lose our house.
” Noah wanted to promise her they wouldn’t. Noah wanted to wanted to say that of course they’d be fine. He’d find another job tomorrow. Everything would work out. But he’d promise Sarah he’d never lie to their daughter about important things. I don’t know, he admitted, but I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we are. Emma nodded slowly, processing this.
Okay, then I’ll help. You’ll help? Yeah, I can get a job. Mrs. Patterson’s always looking for people to walk her dog. And maybe I could babysit. Or m Noah caught her hands, his chest tight. You’re eight. You shouldn’t be worrying about jobs. You’re 32. You shouldn’t have to worry about everything by yourself.
Sometimes his daughter was too damn smart for her own good. Tell you what, Noah said, “How about we both just focus on today? Tomorrow we can worry about tomorrow.” That doesn’t sound like a very good plan. Probably not, but it’s what we’ve got. Emma considered this, then shrugged. Okay, what’s for dinner? Noah looked at the kitchen, at the nearly empty fridge and cabinets that needed restocking, at the life he’d built that was currently crumbling around them.
Then he looked at his daughter, who was still standing there waiting for an answer, and made a decision. “How about we go out?” he said. pizza place on Morrison Street. We don’t go out for dinner. We do tonight. But Dad, Emma, we’re going to have pizza and we’re going to not think about anything else for exactly 1 hour. Deal.
She studied him for a moment, then smiled, small and cautious, but real. Deal. They went to Antonio’s, the cheap pizza place where they did all you can eat on Wednesdays. Emma loaded up on breed sticks and rambled about her day at school. something about a science project on volcanoes and how her friend Madison had gotten in trouble for talking during math.
Noah listened and nodded and tried to be present instead of catastrophizing about the future. It almost worked. They were walking back to the car, Emma holding his hand and chattering about whether they could stop for ice cream sometime this week when Noah’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost didn’t answer, but something made him stop and swipe to accept. Hello.
Is this Noah Bennett? A woman’s voice. Professional but warm. Yes, Mr. Bennett. My name is Claire Morrison. I’m calling on behalf of someone you helped last night during the storm. She asked me to reach out to you. Noah’s heart skipped. Victoria. Yes. She wanted to thank you properly and wondered if you might have time to meet tomorrow afternoon.
I know it’s short notice, but I have time. Noah interrupted, then immediately felt stupid for sounding so eager. Wonderful. Would 2:00 work? I can text you the address. 2:00 is fine. Um, perfect. And Mr. Bennett, she asked me to mention that this is important. Please don’t dismiss the invitation. The line went dead before Noah could respond.
He stood there on the sidewalk before, phone still pressed to his ear, trying to process what had just happened. Who was that? Emma asked. Someone I helped last night. The pregnant lady. Yeah, she wants to meet tomorrow. I saw. Emma’s eyes went wide. Maybe she’s going to give you a reward. Like in movies when someone rescues a princess and gets gold coins.
Real life doesn’t work like that, sweetheart. But maybe this time it does. Noah looked down at his daughter’s hopeful face and wished he could believe in fairy tales again. But he’d learned a long time ago that the world didn’t hand out rewards for doing the right thing. The world mostly just kicked you while you were down and told you it was your own fault for falling in the first place.
Still, he had nothing to lose by meeting with Victoria tomorrow. Nothing except a few hours he’d otherwise spend desperately job hunting. Maybe, Noah said, squeezing Emma’s hand. Maybe this time it does. The address Clare Morrison texted turned out to be in Riverside Heights, the kind of neighborhood where lawns looked professionally maintained, and the cars and driveways cost more than Noah’s entire year’s salary used to be.
Noah checked the address three times before pulling up to the gate, convinced his GPS had made a mistake. Beyond the iron bars and stone pillars stretched a driveway that curved up toward a house. No, not a house, an estate. that looked like something out of a magazine Emma sometimes flipped through at the dentist’s office.
A speaker crackled to life before he could decide whether to turn around and leave. Mr. Bennett. Uh, yes. Come on up. Miss Sinclair is expecting you. The gates swung open smoothly, and Noah drove through, feeling like an impostor. His 15-year-old Civic looked embarrassingly out of place against the manicured landscape.
the perfectly trimmed hedges, the fountain in the circular driveway that probably cost more than his rent. A woman in a crisp gray suit was waiting at the front door. She was maybe 50 with silver hair pulled back and the kind of posture that suggested she’d never slouched a day in her life. Mr. Bennett, I’m Clare Morrison, Ms.
