Coparenting with Greyson was good. More than good. He was a wonderful partner, and she relied on him more than she probably should. She wasn’t sure how sustainable their arrangement was, but it worked for them now, and she wasn’t going to upset the applecart with unimportant details unless she absolutely had to.
“What’s Birds of Eden?” she asked absently, watching while he collected his laptop and the adult coloring book she had bought him a week ago. It had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase. One that she had regretted almost instantly. But when she had gone back to the stationery store to return the book, she had instead found herself buying expensive coloring pencils to go with it.
He had been absolutely delighted with the gift, and now, whenever he had a spare moment, she found him hunched over the ridiculous thing, coloring away furiously. And every night he’d show her his favorite picture of the day. It was really . . . sweet.
“Spencer was telling me about it yesterday. It’s a free-flight bird sanctuary. A lot of the birds were previously caged or came from abusive backgrounds. They’ve got tropical birds, bushveld birds, every kind of bird imaginable. I thought Clara would enjoy it.”
“I doubt she’d really understand what was happening.”
“She’d love the color and the movement, you know she would,” he said, and she pursed her lips.
“I think she definitely would,” she agreed.
“So should we go?”
“We?”
“I thought it would be nice for her if we all could do something together for a change. She rarely sees us together except when we do our baby handovers. I know it’s better for her to get used to it, but I thought we could, just once . . . maybe . . .” He stuttered to a miserable halt. Not sure how to say what he wanted to say.
“That’ll be nice,” she said gently. “What time do you want to leave?”
His head jerked up, and he stared at her in searching disbelief. “Uh . . . nine?”
“You’ll pick us up?”
“Yes. Of course,” he said hastily.
“We’ll see you then.”
He blinked and then grinned.
“Yes. Great. I’ll see you then. Uh, great.” He swung his messenger bag up over his shoulder and stopped by Clara’s crib to drop a kiss on the sleeping baby’s cheek.
“Sleep tight.”
“You too, Greyson.”
She shut the door behind him and waited for panic and regret to hit her. But they remained absent, and when she thought back to his excitement, she allowed herself to smile.
“That was amazing, I mean, I didn’t even know birds came in such a vast variety of colors and species,” Libby enthused the following afternoon when they stopped for lunch after a morning of spectacular bird-watching. “Okay, I knew it. And I know there are probably thousands more than we saw today . . . but it was still quite a sight to behold.”
“A shame Ms. Clara didn’t stay awake long enough to enjoy it,” Greyson said wryly, and they both looked down at their daughter, who was fast asleep in her stroller. She had stared—unimpressed—at a few birds before dozing off, and she’d been asleep ever since.
“She’s too young to appreciate it. We’ll bring her back when she’s a little older,” Libby said with a laugh. “But I loved it.”
“I did too.”
The morning had been very amicable. They had taken a leisurely stroll through the sanctuary, marveling over the different species of birds, laughing at the antics of some of the primates. Greyson had been relaxed, smiling often and laughing a lot.
Libby had enjoyed his company and often found herself staring at him while he laughed at something one of the animals had done.
He was wearing jeans, trainers, and a T-shirt today. She no longer found it odd to see him dressed like that. Maybe because he no longer looked self-conscious in the more casual attire. He had cut his hair again, and it was back to its regular style. But she found the mix of casual and conservative very appealing. It suited him.
They were at a huge family-friendly restaurant in Plettenberg Bay. The kind of place with a play area for children and a junk food menu. It was noisy and filled with laughter, loud chatter, and crying or squealing children.
Libby reached over and stole one of his fries. It was a habit she had formed in London when they had still been dating—tasting his food without permission—and now she grabbed the fry without thinking.
“Hey.” His protest was automatic and playful. “Stick to your salad, woman, and leave my fries alone.”
He made a grab for the fry, and she pertly popped it into her mouth. Then she reflexively opened her mouth again, and the fry dropped onto her plate while she fanned her tongue frantically.
“Why didn’t you warn me it was scorching hot?” she asked him, her eyes streaming and her mouth on fire. Greyson laughed helplessly.