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The silence that follows is deafening.
Robbie and I stand there awkwardly, neither of us sure what to say. I glance around the room, searching for something—anything—to break the tension.
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask, crouching down again. “I bet you have a lot of cool stuff.”
Robbie hesitates, then nods slowly. He sets Rexy on the couch and grabs my hand, pulling me toward a corner of the room where a bin of toys sits neatly against the wall.
For the next hour, Robbie shows me his collection of dinosaurs, explaining each one with surprising detail. His shyness fades little by little as I ask him questions about each one, replaced by an enthusiasm that’s both endearing and infectious.
As I sit cross-legged on the floor, listening to him describe the difference between a Triceratops and a Stegosaurus, which he pronounces surprisingly well, I realize that maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
***
Robbie’s tiny hand grips the edge of the storybook as he stares at the illustrations with wide, curious eyes. He’s tucked under the covers of his massive, king-sized bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows and a small army of dinosaur plushies. Rexy, of course, holds the position of honor at his side.
“And then,” I say, turning the page dramatically, “the brave knight swung his sword and shouted, ‘Not today, dragon!’”
Robbie giggles, and his hazel eyes light up with delight as I put on my best “dragon roar,” waving my free hand like a claw.
“Do it again!” he says, pointing to the page.
“Again?” I ask, feigning exhaustion. “You’re going to wear me out, kiddo.”
He nodsenthusiastically, his brown hair flopping over his forehead.
“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing. I lean closer, lowering my voice into a deep growl. “‘Not today, dragon!’”
Robbie laughs again, clutching Rexy to his chest.
The clock on the bedside table reads 8:15, but I don’t have the heart to end the story just yet. He’s so sweet, so innocent, and he seems so happy. It’s like he’s forgotten his shyness from earlier, replaced by the excitement of a five-year-old lost in a story.
Despite that excitement, though, I notice his eyelids start to droop as I turn another page. The plush comforter rises and falls with each slow, steady breath, and before I finish the next paragraph, he’s out cold.
I close the book quietly and set it on the nightstand, taking a moment to look at him. His features are delicate, soft in the way that only a child’s can be. There’s something heartbreaking about how peaceful he looks, clutching Rexy like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Goodnight, Robbie,” I whisper, tucking the blanket around him.
I switch off the bedside lamp and tiptoe out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way back to the room we were in all night, myheels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. The house feels even larger now, the empty spaces echoing faintly with each step.
It’s kind of creepy, really. Such a massive house and completely empty. I wonder who stays on the property besides Cole and Robbie.
The living room is as elegant as I remember, with its plush sofas, tasteful artwork, and the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sprawling backyard that I’m sure is as grand as the rest of the house. Unfortunately, it’s too dark to see much of it, with only small landscaping lighting visible.
The whole house is the kind of space that looks like it belongs in a high-end design magazine, and yet it feels oddly cold, as if no one really lives here.
I sink into one of the armchairs, curling my legs underneath me. My mind drifts back to Robbie, to the way his face lit up during the story.
For a moment, I feel a pang of envy. Not because of his life or the mansion he lives in, but because of his innocence. I can’t remember the last time I felt that carefree.
I glance at the bookshelves, the surfaces cluttered with frames. Most of the photos are of Robbie: Robbie at the beach, Robbie at what looks like a birthday party, Robbie smiling shyly at the camera. In a few, he’s with other people—Evelyn in one, an older man in another.
But none of them include Cole.
It strikes me as odd. You’d think there’d be at least one photo of the two of them together, but there isn’t. There are no pictures of any woman who could be Robbie’s mom either, though I vaguely remember someone at work mentioning that she passed away some years ago.
The absence feels deliberate, like Cole’s trying to erase himself from the narrative.