(Jasper’s POV)
“Mr. ke, I assure you our park meets all the requirements stated on your proposal. You won’t suffer a loss investing in us.” Mark rke, reiterates as I scan the ce and see the little girl from the bakery.
She is alone on the train ride, and something about that pulls at my chest. I shouldn’t care. She’s just some random kid whose mother makes decent bread. But I find myself walking toward the fence anyway, drawn by something I can’t name.
She waves at me when her cares around, the same enthusiastic greeting she gave me that day. “Hi! Are you here for the rides too?”
“Just watching,” I tell her, surprised by how easily the smilees. “You look like you’re having fun.” <fn978a> The rightful source is FindN()vel</fn978a>
“I am! This is the best day ever!”
There’s pure joy in her voice, the kind I haven’t heard in… God, I can’t remember how long. When did everything be so heavy? Soplicated?
I stay at the fence longer than I should, watching her little hands grip the steering wheel of her train car like she’s driving something important. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t ce who.
The ride stops, and she climbs out, running straight toward me instead of looking for her parents. My chest tightens with unexpected protectiveness.
“Where’s your mama?” I ask, scanning the crowd.
“She’s getting snacks with Dorian.” She says his name like they’re old friends, and something cold settles in my stomach. “Are <i>you </i>here by yourself too?”
“Kind of.” I crouch down to her level. “Your name’s Lily, right?”
“Right! You remembered!” She smiles, tilting her head, studying my face with those serious brown eyes. “You look sad. Are you okay?”
The observation hits me like a punch. When did a four–year–old be more perceptive than the adults in my life?
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just thinking about work.”
Id think about ice cream
instead. That always makes me happy.”
Augh escapes before I can stop it. “Ice cream, huh?”
“Mama says when we’re sad, we can choose to think about good things. Like puppies and ice cream and butterfly wings.” She gestures to her face where half–finished face paint streaks across one cheek. “I was gonna be a butterfly, but then we had <i>to </i><i>go </i>on rides.”
“Butterfly wings sound pretty special.”
“They are! Do you want to see my drawing? I made it for Mama, but I can show you too.”
Before I can answer, she’s digging in a small backpack, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. The drawing is typical four–year–old art–stick figures under a rainbow, a house with a crooked door, and what might be a dog or a very strange cat.
“This is me and Mama,” she exins, pointing to two stick figures holding hands. “And this is our house. And this is Mr. Whiskers.”
“Mr. Whiskers?”
“He’s not real yet, but Mama says maybe someday we can get a cat.” Her face scrunches up in concentration. “Do you have pets?”
“No. I travel too much for work.”
“That’s sad.”
The simple statement cuts deeper than any business rival’s insult ever has. That’s sad. When did my life be…<i>so </i>sad?
I used to have Scarlett waiting for me. We used to have dinners together, conversations that weren’t about Virginia’stest crisis or business mergers. Sometime along the way, I stopped appreciating what I had and when I realized what I lost, it was already toote.
“You’re really good at drawing,” I tell Lily, needing to change the subject.
“Mama taught me. She’s good at everything.” Pride shines in her voice. “She makes the best bread in the whole world, and she tells the best stories, and she gives the best hugs when I have bad dreams.”
Something twists in my chest. The way she talks about her mother… it’s pure love.
Uplicated, fierce, protective love.
“She sounds wonderful.”
:
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“She is. She works really hard, but she always has time for me.” Lily’s expression grows serious. “Some kids at daycare say their daddies don’t have time for them because work is more important. But Mama says love should alwayse first.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Love should alwayse first. How many times did I choose work over Scarlett? How many times did I choose Virginia’s manufactured crises over my wife’s genuine needs?
“Your mama is very smart,” I manage.
“The smartest.” She carefully folds her drawing back up. “Are <i>you </i>married?”
The question shouldn’t hurt, but it does. “It’splicated.”
“Adults always say that when they mean ‘yes but we’re not happy about it.” She gives me a knowing look that’s far too mature for her age. “Mama saysplicated just means someone’s not telling the truth.”
Christ. This kid is going to be dangerous when she grows up.
“Sometimes grown–up feelings are hard to exin,” I try.
“Not really. Either you love someone or you don’t. Either you’re nice to them or you’re not.” She shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Mama says the best way to show love is by choosing the person over and over, even when it’s hard.”
Choosing the person over and over. When was thest time I chose Scarlett? When was thest time I put her first, made her feel valued, showed her she mattered more than everything else?
Never. The answer is never.
I was so busy nursing my wounded pride about the arranged marriage, so focused on proving
I wasn’t some charity case, that I forgot the most important thing: Scarlett chose me too. Every day for three years, she chose me. And I threw it all away for…what? My ego? Virginia’s maniptions?
“Lily!” A man’s voice calls from somewhere in the crowd. “Where did you go?”
“That’s Dorian,” she exins<b>, </b>waving toward a tall man approaching with cotton candy in both hands. “He’s really nice. He makes Mama smile.”
The words hit like ice water. He makes Mama smile. When was thest time I made Scarlett smile? Really smile, not the polite, careful expression she wore around me toward the end?
“I should probably go find him,” Lily says, but she doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she
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looks up at me with those serious eyes again. “Will you be okay? You still look sad.”
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. You go have fun with your mama and… Dorian.”
“Okay. But if you want to talk to someone, Mama’s really good at listening. She listens to all my problems.” She pauses, considering. “Maybe she could listen to your problems too.”
The innocent suggestion makes my throat tight.
“Maybe,” I tell her, knowing it’s a lie.
She gives me one more concerned look, then runs toward the man with the cotton candy. I watch her go, noting how easily she takes his hand, how naturally he amodates her smaller steps.
I fail to see his face, but they look… right together. Like a family.
The realization burns through me like acid. Has Scarlett moved on? Has she found someone who puts her first, who makes time for our child, who probably never leaves them waiting while he runs off to handle someone else’s drama?
I turn to leave, needing to get away from this perfect family tableau, when something stops me cold.
A woman’sugh. Light, genuine, full of joy.
And so familiar, it makes my heart skip a beat.
I turn back, scanning the crowd more carefully this time, and my heart stopspletely when I see her<i>. </i>
There, standing by the game booths, partially hidden behind hanging prizes, is my wife.
Scarlett.
Violet Moon
#Vote#!
<i>” </i>
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