Cooper, who had been playing in the living room, heard her voice and came running in like a little whirlwind. He hit her at full speed, and she caught him, laughing that familiar laugh of hers that used to fill our house with warmth.
I watched them for a moment, feeling a pang of something — longing, maybe? — before I shook it off. It was just the way things were now. Nothing more.
I went back to the kitchen and finished making dinner, calling out, “There’s enough pasta if you want to stay.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
“It’s just pasta, Diane.”
She stayed for dinner. Cooper talked non-stop about a documentary he had watched on dinosaurs, completely oblivious to the tension hanging between Diane and me. Diane listened intently, just as she always did, and I couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt — how comfortable she looked in my space again. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed.
After dinner, Cooper asked if Diane could stay to watch a movie. I looked at her, and then she looked at me. We exchanged a glance, one that carried more weight than I realized.
“It’s up to your dad,” she said, her voice soft.
“It’s fine,” I said, giving in. Why not? It was just a movie, right?
