“Don’t get any big ideas,” she teases.
I smile into the phone. “Too late. I already do. I’ve got an investor thing there next weekend—Saturday to Monday. I was thinking… maybe you’d come. I’d love for you to see it. To be with you. To even show you off a little, if you’re up for it.”
A pause. A breath. Then her voice, firmer now.
“No, Spencer. I can’t go to Sedona next weekend.”
Something shifts. A wall I didn’t see coming.
“I’m a mom,” she says. “I’ve just been away from Esme for three whole days. I won’t see her until after work tomorrow—today, whatever. I can’t even think of being gone again.”
I try to keep it light. “Okay. I get it. Just a thought.”
“And no,” she adds, sharper now, “you shouldn’t call Laney and arrange it as a surprise.”
That stings. I flinch, even though she can’t see it.
I say quietly. “Okay. I understand. I should’ve thought…”
There’s silence. And then, softer, wearier: “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just so tired. And I miss hersomuch.”
That I understand. So I pivot. I do what I’ve always done when something feels broken—I try to fix it.
“How about you bring her?” I say. “I can have Gina arrange for onsite care. We can get a suite that has a separate space, and?—”
“Damn it, Spencer!”
Her voice cuts through the line like glass.
“I said I can’t. I can’t be away from Esme again, and no—I’m sure as hell not hauling her across the country so we can go off and leave her with some perfect stranger. You don’t get it. You really don’t.”
I don’t say anything.
She keeps going, the words coming faster now, jagged at the edges.
“You have no idea what my life is actually like. It’s not room service and private jets and wine on balconies. Parenthood is constant and relentless and all-consuming. And I’mnot living in a world where someone else takes over when I’m tired. She depends on me. And I can’t behermom and play the part ofyourjet-set girlfriend.”
I can’t speak. I don’t think she means to be cruel. But God, it hurts. Like being punched in the gut.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Get some sleep. Maybe we’ll talk later in the week.”
And I hang up. Not because I want to punish her. But if I try to say anything else right now, she’ll hear it.
The hurt in my voice.
The ache I can’t swallow.
As I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, suddenly our fairytale weekend in France feels a million miles away.
THIRTY-ONE
RHEA
By the time I get to Laney’s to pick up Esme after work on Monday, I’m so tired I can barely see straight. My eyes burn, my feet ache, and my heart is heavier than it’s been in months.
Laney opens the door with Esme on her hip and a knowing smile. “So,” she says, arching a brow, “how was the weekend with Prince Charming?”
I drop my bag, throw my arms around her, and burst into tears. Not dainty, pretty tears—ugly, heaving sobs that shake my whole body.
