“Oh my God, girl,” Laney whispers, pulling me inside. “You told him? He didn’t take it well?”
I manage to shake my head. “No,” I choke out. “I never told him. And to make matters worse… the weekend was more perfect than I could’ve imagined. And I ended it by being a total bitch.”
Laney blinks. “What happened?”
“He invited me to Sedona. For next weekend.”
She waits for more. “And…?”
“And I can’t go. I’m a mom. And he had the audacity tosuggest his assistant could arrange for a nanny.”
Laney gasps theatrically. “Oh no! A man who offers support? Who dares to help make things easier? What a monster.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Don’t make fun of me. I can’t just leave Esme every weekend. He doesn’t get it. He has no idea what it means to be a parent.”
Laney hands me a tissue and softens. “Okay, fair. But in his defense, he also has no idea that heisone. You haven’t given him a chance to understand.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. And I think you're scared. Scared by how good the weekend was. Scared by how goodheis. But Rhea… you have to tell him. Youhaveto. Soon. Like now. It only gets harder the longer you wait. And trying to drive him away? That’s not the answer.”
Her words echo in my head hours later—after mac and cheese, after bath toys and bedtime stories, after Esme is finally asleep, her curls damp and her breath even.
Spencer hasn’t done anything wrong. Except try to be with me.
So I pick up the phone and call him.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message.
Tuesday, I can’t focus at work. Everything reminds me of him—of us. His hand in mine as we crossed the Pont Alexandre III. The way he looked at me over dinner, like I was the only thing in the room. The feel of his body pressed to mine in the quiet darkness of that hotel suite.
At lunch, I finally text him.
I would love to see Sedona. Maybe some other time. Just… not this weekend.
That evening, he replies with one word:
Maybe.
That’s it.
I can read the room. I don’t text again. And neither does he.
But the memories—God, the memories—won’t stop. They follow me everywhere. In the steam of the shower. In the scent of Paris still clinging to my scarf. In the silence between turning off the light and falling asleep.
Friday morning, I cave and send one more message.
Thinking of you. Enjoy Sedona.
No reply.
By Friday night, I’m barely upright.
The last four days have stretched like four years. I should be packing a bag, wrangling a toddler, boarding a plane bound for Sedona. With Spencer.
But instead, I’m here. In socks that don’t match, preheating the oven for a frozen pizza and trying—really trying—not to cry again.
