His voice was gentle, but it carried a subtle tension, a plea for ease.
“Of course. I just believe in being clear.” Sabrina’s smile returned, that same polished, distant curve. “We shouldn’t be late. The reservation is for eight.” She bent to kiss Tommy, who accepted it quietly. “Be good for Kayla, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy won’t be long.”
The goodbyes were a study in contrast. Mark knelt, pulling Tommy into a full, rocking hug, whispering something that made the boy giggle softly. Sabrina gave a final, neat wave before turning to collect her coat. As she slipped it on, her eyes met Kayla’s again, and that flicker of something—surprise, calculation, unease—passed through them once more before being shuttered away behind a polished calm. Kayla felt an inexplicable chill, a sense that she had walked onto a stage where the lines were already written, but no one had given her the script.
Mark lingered for a second at the door, giving Kayla an apologetic, almost conspiratorial look. “Really, thank you,” he said again, his sincerity a tangible warmth against the cool precision of his wife’s departure. Then they were gone, and the house settled into a new, waiting silence.
Kayla exhaled, the sound loud in the quiet entryway. She looked down at Tommy, who stared up at her, his dinosaur now held by its neck. “Well, Tommy,” she said, shaking off the strange tension. “You heard your mom. Seven-thirty sharp. That gives us…” she made a show of checking her watch, “…plenty of time for some serious dinosaur adventures first. What do you say?”
A small, genuine smile broke through Tommy’s shyness. He nodded, holding out the stuffed toy for her to see. “This is Rex,” he whispered, as if sharing a great secret.
“Rex is an excellent name,” Kayla said, crouching again. “I bet he’s very brave.” As she followed Tommy into the bright, tidy living room, the earlier feeling of hope returned, mingled now with a prickling curiosity. The house felt less like a simple sanctuary and more like a puzzle, its pieces—the father’s palpable relief, the mother’s detached precision, the child’s quiet watchfulness—waiting to be fitted together.