“What if the truth breaks us up?” Renly voiced, looking at me with uncertainty.
“Brian is awesome and so are you, but ultimately, you guys are at a fork in the road, and you may end up having to take different paths. It sucks, but…what else can you do?”
“How’d you get to be so smart?” He shook his head, hiding a proud little smile, although his irises were tinged with sadness.
“I got dumped?” I shrugged, pausing the treadmill to guzzle more water. I was sweating profusely, but we’d only been there for twenty minutes. Not that I was watching the clock.
Ren stopped his machine too. He lifted his water bottle and drank from it, watching me with a peculiar look on his face. “I like this new you.” He stepped off the treadmill, and I followed him over to the weights, frowning a little.
“What was wrong with the old me?”
“Nothing was wrong with the old you.” Renly arched a brow. “Except that tumour you had for a while.”
“What tumour?” Ren gave me a pointed look. “Oh, right. Him. Yeah, many ways, things are better without him. I just kind of miss having someone around. Waking up to coffee was pretty mint.”
“Well, keep your eyes on the prize, and remember: squats are your best friend,” he responded, winking at me as he tossed a large exercise ball in my direction.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
Ren let out a huff, halfway between a sigh of exasperation and a laugh. “You have a great ass, Gwen. But pizza will make it doughy, so do squats.”
“I just ran on the treadmill.”
“You were speed walking at best.” He laughed. “Besides, you don’t need to focus on cardio so much. If you do, you’ll risk losing that great ass. Squats will just build it up.”
“I don’t think it needs any more building up,” I muttered, sullenly heading to the mirror with the exercise ball.
Alaric
I held open the door, and Sawyer twirled around on her tip-toes, spinning into the foyer. We walked up the stairs to the dance studio, her little voice chattering happily about all the things I’d missed out on since the last weekend we spent together.
The room was packed with miniature ballerinas and their parents, mostly mothers, although I spotted a handful of men. All eyes went to us as we walked in, and I was aware of the scrutiny of some of the other parents.
I didn’t exactly fit the dance parent mold.
“Hi, Miss Claire!” Sawyer said, coming to a stop in front of her dance instructor, a young woman in her late twenties. I’d met her a few times before in passing, after the few dance recitals I’d managed to find out about in time to catch.
“I believe we met after the Christmas recital? Nice to see you again,” she said, smiling warmly at me before her gaze dropped to Sawyer. She appraised my daughter’s hair and raised her eyebrows, impressed at the tight ballerina bun I’d wrangled her long locks into ten minutes before leaving the house earlier that morning.
A lot of women instantly doubted a man’s ability to dress his children and do hair. I’d never wanted to be the kind of father that added to that stereotype, so I didn’t shy away from learning how to do those things. If I could weld at great heights, there was no reason why I couldn’t put my own daughter’s hair into a ballerina bun for her dance class.
But I had no doubt Cheryl had probably warned Claire that she’d need to fix whatever disaster of a hairstyle I attempted. Hopefully, it’d get back to Cheryl, and maybe one day she’d even lay off naysaying my abilities.
Claire smiled warmly at Sawyer. “Why don’t you go line up with the other students?” she suggested, tilting her head toward the classroom.
“Okay! See you soon, Daddy!” Little arms wrapped around my leg, and she was off—joining her friends as they filed into the studio.
“Classes are an hour long. Parents can feel free to leave and come back at the end of the class, or they can hang out in the waiting room.” Claire said, gesturing to the seats arranged in the waiting room. “There’s a little café down the street that serves good coffee.”
Chairs were filling quickly, so I grabbed one against the far wall facing the classroom door. I pulled out my cell phone, intent on keeping my head low. Technically, this was still Cheryl’s territory—and it felt like it, with the way a lot of the other parents were looking at me.
No doubt she’d filled them in on her version of events. That was just the kind of person Cheryl was; she always had to come out as the saint, the innocent party, while I was always the bad guy.
“Are you Sawyer’s dad?” the woman sitting in the row of plastic chairs across from me asked, staring me up and down. She had blonde hair chopped in a bob, and deep brown eyes that assessed me keenly.
“Yeah,” I responded, working to keep my tone polite and friendly. Cheryl would have a field day if the other dance parents’ complained about my attitude.
“Oh, that’s lovely. I see where she gets her gorgeous blonde locks from.” The woman giggled flirtatiously. She moved to the seat beside me and thrust her hand at me. “I’m Gabriella’s mom, Cindy. Sawyer’s a head taller than my Gabby, and she’s in the 95 percentile!”
