Chapter 9: I'm Better at This Than You
Amanda's POV
"Don't take what Madeline said at dinner to heart."
The warm amber light fell across Charles from the side, tracing his profile in clean, sharp lines.
I paused for a moment, then shook my head.
"Mrs. Bennett was telling the truth," I said. "And those are the rules. I get that." I thought about it for a second, and the corner of my mouth curved up. "Honestly, she's a lot gentler than some of the managers I had back in my waitressing days."
Charles glanced at me, like he hadn't expected that.
"Besides," I lowered my voice a little, "at the end of the day, I'm here to do a job. As long as Ethan's doing well, I've done what I came here to do."
The room was quiet. Only Ethan's steady breathing filled the silence, and the nightlight cast everything in a soft, warm glow.
I sat back down at the edge of the bed and kept my voice low.
"He drew so many suns today," I said. "Filled up the whole page. When I gave him a fresh sheet, he thought about it for a moment and switched colors — drew a tree instead." Charles settled into the chair beside me without a word, just listening. "And that sweet soup tonight — he didn't leave a single drop. When he finished, he ran his tongue over his lips." My mouth curved upward without me meaning it to. "I think he liked it."
I paused. "And before bed — he let me sit with him. That wasn't always the case, was it?"
I was still talking when I noticed Charles hadn't said anything in a while.
I looked up and found him watching me. His expression was calm, attentive, and there was something in it I couldn't quite put my finger on.
"What is it?" I asked.
Charles's POV
She'd been smiling the whole time she talked.
When she mentioned Ethan drawing the tree, there was a light in her eyes. When she described the empty bowl, she laughed before she even finished the sentence — like the soup had made her happier than it had made him.
When she said he let me stay with him, her voice carried something she was barely keeping in check — a small, bright excitement, like she'd been handed something precious and was trying not to let on how much it meant.
I sat there watching her, and then, quietly, I admitted it to myself.
She was right for this. For Ethan, and — I suspected — for her own daughter too. That kind of warmth couldn't be faked. And even if it could, even if this was all some sustained performance, it was doing him nothing but good.
"Nothing," I said. "Keep going."
Amanda smiled at me, then stood. "Stay with him a little longer. He's sleeping soundly — he won't wake easily."
She straightened her jacket, tucked the blanket more snugly around Ethan, and slipped quietly out of the room.
I moved to the edge of the bed and looked down at him.
He was sleeping well — cheeks flushed pink, lips barely parted, soft and round against the pillow, his face slack with sleep. I reached out and closed my fingers gently around the one small hand left uncovered by the blanket.
He stirred. I thought he was waking, but he wasn't. He simply closed his fingers around two of mine, his whole hand folding around them, and held on.
I didn't move.
This was new.
There had been a time — not long ago — when Ethan slept like he was braced for something. Light as paper, jolting awake at the smallest sound. He'd cry when I came in and cry when I didn't, and I never knew what he needed, and he had no way to tell me. But tonight he slept deep and still, his hand curled around my fingers, his breathing slow and even.
Amanda did this, I thought.
I sat with him for close to half an hour before I finally drew my hand free, dimmed the light, and walked out.
The living room lights were still on.
Amanda was on the sofa, phone in hand, the screen washing her face in pale blue light. She hadn't heard me come in. She was staring at the screen, wearing a soft, unguarded smile — the kind people only allow themselves when they think no one's watching.
I crossed the room and sat down across from her.
She looked up, then turned the phone and held it out without hesitation.
"Cute, right?"
On the screen was a little girl sitting on a sofa, grinning so wide her eyes disappeared, cheeks round and full. An older woman sat beside her, the two of them leaning their heads together, both of them happy.
"Very cute," I said.
Amanda pulled the phone back, looked at the photo once more, smiled again, then set it down. When she looked up at me, her tone shifted — something more direct coming into it.
"Mr. Morrison."
I thought she was about to say something serious.
"Stop giving Ethan those nutritional supplements," she said. "Let him eat real food."
I looked at her. "How did you know about—"
"He hasn't been sleeping well, has he," she said, cutting me off. "Light sleeper. Wakes easily. Cries a lot."
I said nothing. That was answer enough.
"He's hungry," she said, matter-of-fact. "He's growing. A few spoonfuls of supplement paste isn't going to cut it. If a child isn't eating enough, he doesn't sleep well. If he doesn't sleep well, he's going to be fussy and miserable — and that's not a problem with Ethan. That's a problem with how he's being fed."
I looked at her for a moment without speaking.
She stood, covered a yawn with the back of her hand, then stretched, rolling her shoulders back, and glanced over at me.
"You're probably better at making money than I'll ever be," she said. "But when it comes to raising a child? That's where I've got the edge."
She lifted a hand in a brief wave. "Good night, Mr. Morrison. Get some rest."
She turned and started down the hallway.
I said, "Please wait."
She stopped and looked back.
I reached into my pocket, took out a small box, walked over to her, and opened it — lifting out the ring inside and holding it toward her.
