“To Esme." He nods. Hearing him say her name tugs at something deep in me.
"So," he says, shifting to face me more fully, "I’m thinking about next weekend. Are you free?"
I laugh and also panic.. "Free isn’t exactly the word that describes my life these days. But yeah, other than laundry catch-up and grocery runs and chasing my toddler through the house... maybe. What are you thinking? You coming to Maplewick to check on the project’s progress?"
"I’d love that," he says. "I’ve seen some of the impact reports from your project—and you, my friend, are doing amazing work. Work that could be replicated. Scaled."
I blink. "You’ve been following the project?"
He nods. "Well, Iamyour funder."
I laugh as his fingers trail from the side of my face down the center of my torso. A shiver runs through me.
"Well, Mr. Funder, you should have swung by sooner to check on things in person. Things aren’t always what they seem on paper." And for a moment I imagine him dropping by unexpectedly, me answering the door a toddler who has his smile in my arms.
"Rhea," he says, his voice suddenly serious. "I want to see you. The project – that’s a distant second. I want to see what this could be."
I swallow hard. The fears I’d barely managed to tamp down last night start bubbling to the surface again.
"What about the weekend after next?" I ask, quietly. "I’ll see if I can get Laney to watch Esme again. I just... I feel bad leaving her two weekends in a row."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. “Okay. You want to come to the city, or should we hang closer to Maplewick?”
“No.” Anxiety pushes the words out of my mouth before my brain can catch up. “Let’s have a real date. A real honest to goodness show-me-the-city-lights first date.”
"So is that a promise?" he asks. "Two weekends from now, I get to take you somewhere special? Give you the kind of date a woman like you deserves?"
Before the fear can completely consume me, I lean in close, my lips brushing his ear.
"C’est une promesse."
It’s a promise
Esme isall over me the moment I walk through the door—her arms wrapped tight around my neck, her little voice babbling everything I missed. I squeeze her so close, I think I might never let go.
But behind the warmth and relief of holding her, there’s something else now. A pang I can’t name—an ache that tightens my chest as I look at her.
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know her father.
And he has no idea what he’s missing.
Laney watches me closely as I get Esme settled in with a snack. “Okay,” she says, pouring us each a glass of wine, “you look like a woman with a lot on her mind. Spill.”
So I do.
Piece by piece, I lay it all out—the gala, the wrong number, the family picnic photo. The fake date. The bike accident. The wedding. The hotel. The night.
Laney blinks. “Wait. A fake date? Awrong number? Hissister, not hiswife? A bike accident in France with a year-long recovery?” She sets her wine down. “Jesus, Rhea. Are you sure you believe all of this?”
“I saw the scars,” I say quietly. “I saw the pain. I felt it.” I pause. “He kept the note I left him. For two years, he kept it.”
Laney exhales slowly, leaning back. “So what now?”
“I’m going to tell him. I have to. He deserves to know.”
“And?”
