Page 85 of Desperate Games

Somewhere between tea parties on the kitchen floor, pink glitter nail polish smeared across both of our hands, and bedtime stories that end with her tucking me in, she’s become mine too.

My little girl.

And it makes my heart swell in ways I didn’t think were possible—because Remy hasn’t just given me his name, or his babies growing inside me, or even his overwhelming, all-consuming presence.

He’s given me her.

A child who trusts me.

Who hugs me tight and calls me “my Andy” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Who crawls into my lap when she’s sleepy and curls her little fingers into my shirt like I’m her safe place.

And now, as I sit here in the quiet of our—yes, our—house, I realize something terrifying.

I’m not just falling for Remy Falco.

I’m falling for everything he’s given me.

The life. The family. The future I’ve always dreamed of.

And God help me, I don’t know how I’ll ever let go.

The house feels too big without him.

Even with Callie humming some nonsense tune as she drags her stuffed unicorn across the floor, there’s a hollow echo in the walls.

Like the absence of Remy is its own presence—loud, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Still, I rally.

“Alright, Miss Thing,” I say, hands on my hips as I follow her into the kitchen.

“What do you want for dinner? And before you say it, no—chocolate cake is not a food group.”

She giggles, hiding her face behind the unicorn.

“Mac and cheese? With chicken bites!”

“Mac and cheese with chicken bites it is,” I declare, and I swear her smile could power the entire block.

Chicken bites is what we call sliced grilled chicken, and lucky for me, Remy always has a couple all ready to go in the fridge. It just requires a little skillful reheating, so they don’t get dry.

Cooking for Callie and me in our kitchen? Well, it feels weirdly grounding.

The simple rhythm of boiling pasta, stirring in cheese, milk, and butter, then slices of grilled chicken, and cutting up some carrot sticks on the side—because God knows I can’t fail my first solo parenting gig by letting her live on mainly carbs alone—makes me feel almost steady.

Like maybe I can do this.

We sit at the kitchen nook, her swinging her little legs while I keep reminding her to take smaller bites so she doesn’t choke.

She ignores me, of course, but when she holds out a forkful for me to try, I almost cry.

Because that’s what moms do, isn’t it? They share.

Later, bath time is chaos. Bubbles everywhere. Water all over my shirt.

Callie shrieks with laughter when I pretend the rubber duck is a monster and chase it around the tub.