“Claudia,” he says, lowering his glasses just enough to look me over. “You came.”
“You told me to,” I answer evenly.
He smirks. “Still literal. You always were.”
“I’m consistent,” I correct.
“Consistent,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”
I don’t rise to the bait. I just adjust Savannah’s stroller canopy to block the wind.
He crouches to peek inside. “So, this is her.”
“This is Savannah.”
He studies her for a moment — really looks. “She’s got my hair and nose.”
“She has her own,” I say softly.
He stands again, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “You look good.”
I know he’s being a dick, I’m carrying ten pounds I didn’t before, and I am not toned at all. But the truth is, I like this me better. “Motherhood will do that to you.”
He chuckles. “You make it sound like some kind of spa treatment.”
“No. It’s work.”
He smiles like I’ve confirmed something for him. “You always liked a challenge.”
“I liked peace,” I say. “There’s a huge difference.”
“Peace looks good on you,” he says, then gestures toward the path winding around the park. “Mind if I take her for a walk? Just around the fountain. Get to know her a little?”
My instinct screams no, but I study him carefully. His tone isn’t soft — it’s calculated. He wants control, a small victory.
“She doesn’t know you,” I say quietly.
He straightens. “She’s a baby, Claudia. She’ll be fine.”
“She’smybaby,” I remind him.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, clearly impatient. “Look, I’m trying here, okay? I flew you two here. I’m standing here in a park full of strangers because I’m doing what is right — showing up. You could meet me halfway.”
His words slide in like a knife disguised as reason. I hate that he still knows how to make something sound like my fault.
I look down at Savannah. She’s watching him, curious, her little mouth forming an “O” as she babbles softly.
“Five minutes,” I say. “Stay where I can see you.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Sure. Whatever makesyoucomfortable.”
He takes the stroller handles and starts walking — slow at first, then drifting farther than I’d like. I follow from a distance, pretending to check my phone, pretending not to hover. Yet also not giving a damn if he feels I am.
He bends toward Savannah, saying something I can’t hear, and for a fleeting second I let myself hope he’s saying hello and goodbye. That maybe, just maybe, he needs that.
But then I see it — the flash of his phone. He’s taking pictures.
My chest tightens as I walk closer. “Kyle.”
