Sophie hurries closer while Vanessa snaps a couple of shots, both of them smiling wide for the camera. Then she’s already checking the screen, sliding the phone back into her bag.
Vanessa flashes me a quick smile, gives me a once-over.
“Hi, Dec. Long time. You look… tired.”
The way she says it, breezy and careless, lands like a bruise. Before I can answer, she waves, shifts into gear, and she’s gone.
Sophie doesn’t notice. She’s too busy with the lip gloss. I bite my tongue. I won’t ruin her moment.
But inside, it burns. Because this drive-by parenting, these flashes of shiny effort—they don’t mean a damn thing.
Sophie deserves so much better.
And I can’t stop thinking about how different Charlie is. Steady. Reliable. She shows up.
Sophie’s at Maya’s for a sleepover, her laughter still echoing in my head after the door closed behind her. The house feels too quiet now.
Dinner is leftover pasta, straight from the bowl while the TV flickers useless noise in the background. I can’t concentrate on any of it.
This should’ve been dinner with Charlie. I can see it too clearly—her laugh across the table, the way she tucks her hair back when she’s trying not to smile.
I shove the image away, but the guilt sits heavy anyway.
I don’t know what’s worse: that tomorrow morning I’ll have to see her, or that I don’t have a damn clue how to make this right.
Chapter Seventeen
CHARLOTTE
Last night I cycled through every emotion: confusion, frustration, even the sharp sting of embarrassment.
His text keeps replaying in my head.
Not a good idea.
It sounds like he’s sayingwearen’t a good idea.
Now it’s Monday morning, and the ache hasn’t dulled one bit.
The smell of chocolate still clings to my kitchen from earlier this morning. I baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies for Maya’s school bake sale tomorrow.
Her class is raising money for a pizza party when the musical wraps next month, and I promised I’d stop by for a few minutes if I can.
Ten minutes, drop the cookies, say hi.
Easy enough.
By the time I pull on my polo and knot my hair into a clean ponytail, my chest feels wrapped in wire. Neutral. That’s the goal. No grinning like usual, no humming like a lovestruck teenager.
Just Charlotte Blake, PT, tablet in hand, ready to do her job.
I practice the tone in my head during the drive: polite, clinical, untouchable. If he wants distance, I can give it. A quieter voice inside me whispers there has to be a reason. I tuck it away, for now, under a layer of composure.
But as the arena comes into view, my pulse spikes anyway. Because no matter how many times I rehearse being restrained, I know the second I see him, my heart’s not going to listen.
The training room feels smaller than usual. The tablet in my hand shakes a little, so I grip it tighter, like professionalism can double as armor. If he wants boundaries, fine. I’ll give him boundaries. But that doesn’t mean my stomach isn’t in knots, or that my chest doesn’t clench every time I imagine his face.
Because the truth is, I was looking forward to that dinner. To hearing his laugh without the walls around it. And now, instead, I wrap an ice pack to his knee and pretend I don’t care that he pulled away.
