Carter was a bit uneasy about bringing Leticia home with them.

For one thing, bringing a woman back to his house was a big deal to him, even without factoring in Molly. Second, he was definitely nervous about showing Leticia his art. He’d never shown it to anyone before besides his Nan and Molly.

The art had been a way for him to cope with Olivia’s death. He’d had a hard time expressing himself, since he’d been so determined to put on a brave face for Molly. He had allowed himself to sometimes show when he was sad so that Molly would know it was okay to grieve and to show emotion, but he’d never tried to show just how much he was hurting. He hadn’t wanted her to have to deal with that. But talking to his friends and family about it had just felt exhausting. Why would he want to go over the same things with them when it felt like he was just talking in circles? How many times could he go to a friend and say, “I’m sad” or “I miss her”?

It had been Nan’s suggestion to start painting. He’d told her dozens of times that he wasn’t any good, but she had told him that didn’t matter.

“Art is where you heart has always been,” she’d told him. “So, let that be where you pour your heart into.”

She had been right. While he still didn’t think his paintings were anything worth selling, they had helped him to express his emotions and come to terms with his grief. Even after he’d moved on and his missing Olivia hadn’t been as sharp, he’d continued to paint, finding it soothing and a way to handle any big emotions or frustrations he ran into in his daily life.

He’d shown them to Molly, of course. He didn’t want to keep such a big thing from her, first of all. And how was he supposed to encourage her about her own art if he hid his away from her like a secret?

But the idea of showing his art to someone as knowledgeable as Leticia, someone who was a curator and highly intelligent and chose what art would go into the museum and be displayed, someone who had artist friends and went to art shows and galleries weekly—it made his heart race. He hadn’t been this nervous about showing someone anything since his junior year finals, when he was pretty much convinced that he was going to fail AP Studio Art.

He was also nervous about Leticia and Molly spending so much time together when he knew that Leticia wasn’t comfortable with kids. He could see that in how she behaved. Most people approached kids with an eager delight, a sense of joy that could easily be sensed. Leticia approached talking to Molly as if one word might get her sent to the guillotine.

As the conversation had gone on, however, and Molly had talked more about art, he had noticed Leticia opening up more. She had relaxed and chatted easily with Molly about art history.

It would be so easy to fall into the trap of the idea that Leticia could come to love Molly. He knew that he was biased because Molly was in a way his entire world and he loved her desperately, as only a parent can love, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking that one conversation equaled Leticia revising her stance on kids and coming to accept Molly as her own. And that was far too down the line to even consider. He and Leticia had been dating for, what, not even a month? It was silly to go down that road, even in his head.

Yet he couldn’t avoid the truth: he missed Leticia. He wanted to spend more time with her. As if his giving in last night hadn’t been enough of a clue. He shouldn’t have slept with her, not when they weren’t dating anymore and had barely talked at all about what the deal was with Molly—but he hadn’t been able to resist her. He still desired her, all the time it felt like. Touching her again after going so long without her had left him feeling dizzy.

He wanted to date her again. He wanted to spend time in her office making her laugh. He wanted to get lunch together and buy her coffee in the mornings. The problem was that he wanted the Leticia part of his life and the Molly part of his life to meet in the middle and mesh, and he didn’t know if that was possible, and now he couldn’t stop himself from hoping a little.

Molly pulled Leticia into the house by the hand, pointing to all the art around the house. There were mostly prints of famous artwork. A few pieces were original works by artists that Carter had come across at art fairs and such, but he’d tried to fill his house with as much artwork as possible and prints were simply less expensive. Besides, it gave Molly the chance to be surrounded by famous works that she otherwise wouldn’t get to see in person unless she traveled to Europe or something.

“And this is where my dad’s art is!” Molly said, leading Leticia into the room that Carter designated as his art studio.

“Wow,” Leticia said. The word was quiet, almost nothing more than an exhale. Carter shuffled his feet, feeling his face heat up.

Most of his work was abstract explorations of color. He had started with the idea of using color to explore emotion, and then moved onto the idea of color as representing an individual personality. A vibrant, orange-toned painting was named Molly, for instance, while a painting in various shades of gray was titled Dad.

Leticia was staring around her, mouth slightly open.

“They’re not really much,” he warned her. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Molly looked up at Leticia expectantly, a small smile on her face.

“Not say anything—?” Leticia shook her head. “Carter, these are amazing. I have some connections—not that you don’t, but—you should totally put some stuff up in the local galleries.”

“They’re people,” Molly said, pointing to the one named after her. “That’s me. I told him, he should do an interview where he gets to know someone? And then do a painting of them. Like a portrait, but different.”

Molly pointed at another painting, this one pink. “That’s my mom.”

If he was to paint Leticia, Carter thought, he would do her up in red. Vermillion. Something as bright and vibrant as she was.

“What’s this?” Leticia asked.

She walked behind the door to where he had rested some abandoned pieces. That had been from when he’d made himself take an art class. Most of them were abandoned figure drawings, but one was almost finished. It had taken him months of working over and over again to get it to where he wanted it. His own technical skills had been lacking, of course, but it was also that there were times he just had to walk away. The emotions would be too much. He’d go back to painting his abstracts, and then when it wasn’t killing him anymore, he’d come back and work on it some more.

It was a portrait of a woman. She had Molly’s face, especially her nose, but her hair was a soft, downy brown and her eyes were hazel. He had drawn her sitting on the window seat, book in her lap, staring out the window.

Olivia had always loved to daydream.

“That’s my mom, too,” Molly said. “Isn’t she pretty? I used to want to look like her but now I’m okay looking like my dad, too.”

Leticia stared at the painting for a moment, then carefully set it down. “It’s really something,” she said.

“It’s hardly Michelangelo,” Carter replied.

“Nobody’s Michelangelo,” Leticia replied, almost offhand. “I can feel the love and sorrow in this painting. Really, Carter.” She looked up at him, and to his surprise he saw tears standing in her eyes. “You do a really good job of capturing what you’re feeling on the canvas.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure what to say. “Thanks. I’m not really—I don’t do figures and such, normally. But I wanted to do one, of her.”

“I’m sure she loves it,” Leticia replied.

Carter could feel his eyes starting to feel hot and knew that if they didn’t change the subject soon the both of them would be crying and that would just set Molly off. “So, mac n’ cheese?” He said, gesturing towards the kitchen.

“Yay!” Molly yelled, running into the kitchen to start grabbing ingredients.

Leticia grabbed his hand. “I really mean it, Carter. I mean, you don’t have to sell anything that you don’t want to. But if you do want to—this is really lovely stuff. People will like these. You should give it a go. I wouldn’t put yourself down so much if I were you. It’s really great work.”

She spoke softly, but with such conviction—the kind of conviction that he had grown used to from her. Leticia’s opinions weren’t unchangeable, but they were strong. They also tended to be formed based on her knowledge. If she wasn’t educated on something, she would freely admit to it. But Leticia was highly educated about art and firm in her opinions of what constituted high quality and craftsmanship.

Basically, if she was telling him that his art was good… maybe it was.

Not that he was going to rush out and hand it over to a gallery or anything, but... It was nice to think about. To consider that, maybe, he wasn’t as bad as he’d been telling himself he was all of these years.

It was a nice thought.

He squeezed Leticia’s hand, giving her a grateful smile. Leticia smiled back at him and, for a moment, the urge to kiss her was so strong, he could hardly stand it.

It all felt so natural: Molly in the kitchen banging around, Leticia holding his hand and smiling at him, standing in his art studio on a Saturday. He could almost imagine that this was how his life usually went.

Then Molly yelled, “Daddy, c’mon!” And Leticia’s face fell a little, and she let go of his hand, and he remembered the reality of the situation.

God dammit.

He went into the kitchen to help Molly start making the macaroni and cheese. “I got this recipe from my mom,” he told Leticia. “I make it for Molly more than I probably should.”

“I should’ve known you’d be a pushover,” Leticia said, winking at him and sitting down at the kitchen table.

“What did you think of my dad’s art?” Molly asked. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” Leticia told her. “I love your art, too. You’re very talented. I guess you get that from your dad, huh?”

Molly nodded seriously. Then she brightened up. “Oh! I haven’t shown you my room yet!”

She grabbed Leticia’s hand and all but dragged her out of the chair, pulling her up the stairs. Leticia laughed a little, and Carter noticed that she seemed a bit less stiff than before.

The two girls were upstairs for a minute or two, and then they came back down. Leticia definitely seemed more relaxed than before—not entirely in her element, but also not as awkward.

Molly definitely wasn’t like most other kids, Carter thought. She was very articulate and talked more like an adult, thanks to all the reading she did on art. She was quiet and could be very serious at times. He wasn’t sure how much of it was the loss of her mother and how much of it was just who Molly was innately, but maybe that extra bit of maturity was helping to bridge the gap between her and Leticia.

He certainly hoped so.

The two girls chatted while he focused on making the mac n’ cheese, smiling to himself as Leticia gently pointed out holes in Molly’s logic and helped her work through arguments about why she did or didn’t like this or that artist.

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Leticia said, “But you have to be able to say why you have that opinion.”

Molly nodded solemnly and drank in everything Leticia said. It made warmth fill Carter’s chest and the ends of his fingers and toes tingle with something a little like anticipation.

They talked about more lighthearted things as well—Leticia had an endless number of funny stories about artists. She censored a few of them, Carter noticed, having heard the adult-rated versions at previous lunches they’d had together.

As he served the mac n’ cheese, he thought about how natural this was. How he wanted to have this every day.

The realization hit him like he was a puppet and someone had just cut his strings. His knees buckled a little and he had to sit down quickly. He hoped that neither girl had noticed.

He looked from Molly, who was giggling and listening with rapt attention, to Leticia, who was using her hands to gesture as she told another story.

They were interacting more naturally, perhaps more easily than either realized. It scared him a little, how easily Molly was taking to Leticia, but Leticia seemed to be warming to Molly as well.

Carter watched Leticia. Her noted her dark eyes and how they danced. Her thick hair pulled back into a braid. The way she used her hands to assist her words, her full voice.

He was in love with her.

He sat there, feeling limp, a broken puppet. He was in love with Leticia.

What the hell was he going to do?