"Defend your argument," she said, a challenge blazing in her eyes. "Don't apologise for it."
I looked down at her there on the couch and in that moment, I saw Abbi in her. In her bare feet, in her long blonde hair that she was constantly pushing from her face, in the stubborn set of her pink lips. I saw her mother. And she was beautiful.
With a chuckle, I stuck my tongue out at her. This caused a frown of confusion to knit together Zara's eyebrows above her intelligent green eyes.
"That's rather immature, don't you think?" she asked.
My response to that was to pluck a piece of popcorn from the bowl and toss it at her. It hit her square in the forehead and without a word, she watched it fall from her folded knee to the floor. She looked from the kernel on the carpet to me.
"Really?"
I threw another one. It hit her on the nose.
"Your monetary policy is utter shite," I said.
I bit back a grin as the polished, mature little girl bristled in frustration. "That's not an argument," she replied through clearly gritted teeth.
I raised an eyebrow and said, "No?" before flinging another piece of popcorn at her.
She successfully narrowed her eyes at me in disapproval, but she failed to hide the tiny grin that tugged up the corners of her lips.
"You're debasing our civilised conversation," she said, but nonetheless giggled when the next piece of popcorn bounced off the top of her head and landed beside her stack of library books on the couch.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, showering her with a handful of popcorn this time before adding another, "No clue."
"Hey!" Zara protested, shielding herself with her arms over her head. "Stop it!"
I found myself smiling irresistibly as I continued and said, "Oh, are you going to send the Federal Trade Commission after me?"
All it took was one more popcorn assault for Zara to jump up onto the couch, dig her little hand into the bowl, and give me a buttery taste of my own medicine. From then on, we were about as civilised as a pair of monkeys hopping on the bed as we covered the floor with popcorn, raced after one another, jumping from cushion to cushion, and making the neighbours pound on the wall and shout for us to “Shut the hell up!”
We ended up lying on the floor, our feet opposite one another, our heads side by side as we gazed up at the ceiling like a star-covered sky and caught our breaths. I was fairly sure M&Ms were melting into my Gucci pants beneath me, but I couldn't really find it in me to care.
"How do you know so much about monetary policy?" I asked after a few quiet moments.
I turned my head to look at Zara. Her gaze was still fixed on the ceiling and despite it being a plane of flat beige, I could nevertheless see a million stars reflected in her eyes.
"I wanted to know you," she said with a small, timid voice.
Her head turned to me and we looked into each other's eyes.
"I looked you up on the internet," she added.
As I stared at my daughter, at her bright cheeks and dusting of freckles and long eyelashes, I realised that this wasn't how I wanted her to know me. I didn't want her to know me as my position or my salary or my business conquests. I wanted her to know me.
After a moment of pondering this, I said, "I have lots of brothers."
Zara seemed surprised by this, not that I had lots of brothers, but that I'd brought them up.
"Do you want me to tell you about them?" I asked her.
A small smile played at her tiny lips and she nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."
Abbi
That night I left the apartment and hurried down the stairs before I had a chance to change my mind. I ran into Sandra getting out of her car and walking toward me. She glanced at her watch and frowned.
"Am I late?" she started to say. "I hit a bit of traffic, but—"
Her words were cut off when I grabbed her by the arm and whirled her around. "Do you have your ID?" I asked.
Sandra was clearly confused as she glanced over her shoulder at the apartment where she still assumed she was going to babysit.
"Well, yeah, but—"
"Comfortable shoes?"
Sandra glanced at her sneakers as she stumbled over her words. I guided her toward a cab that pulled into the apartment complex.
"Abbi, I don't understand where—"
Sandra stopped short of the cab in surprise. I hurried to open the door and jerked my head toward the back seat.
"Get in," I said. "We're going out."
Sandra jabbed her thumb over her shoulder as she raised a critical eyebrow.
"And what about your very young daughter alone in your apartment?" she asked, refusing to move and expressing this refusal with a determined crossing of her arms over her chest.
"She's not alone," I replied, not even allowing my eyes to move toward the apartment door on the second floor.
I was afraid even that would be enough to send me running back toward Zara.
"No?" Sandra asked, clearly intrigued. "And who exactly is with her?"
I sucked in a steadying breath, my grip tightening on the top of the cab's door.
"Michael."
Sandra visibly took a step back. "Oh heck."
I grimaced. "Yeah."
"Well, damn, girl," Sandra said, nearly flinging herself into the back seat of the cab. "We've got to get you to alcohol!"
I chuckled as I followed in after her, grinning as my friend leaned forward to speak to the driver.
"Mister, you best step
