But I’m not so preoccupied that I don’t spend every spare second thinking about Galen. We even talk some on FlingIt, but it’s nothing of substance. He doesn’t invite me to his place again, and I don’t invite him to mine. A stalemate has stretched out between us and I can’t unpick that either.
Another Friday rolls around and I’m still trying. At lunchtime, I fetch Esme from nursery and take her for a walk through the recreation grounds behind the high street.
Mistletoe Park is so fucking pretty in winter. Frost sparkles on the trees and robins dance on the ground. At least until Esme clatters towards them, chucking bread at their little heads. “Easy.” I take the bag from her. “There’ll be none left for the ducks.”
“Papa, y sont où les canards?”
“Wherearethe ducks?” I correct her in English. Loving that her sponge-like brain slips so easily between both languages. “Over there, see?”
I turn her towards the big pond. It has a track around it that runners and walkers use, and beyond it, the water is ringed by trees that seem ethereal in the silver winter light.
Maybe that’s what makes the flash of auburn so obvious to me. Or maybe I’ve just been searching for it since the last time I saw him.
Galen.
He’s walking with a bag tossed over his good shoulder, poking at his phone as he heads in our direction with no idea I’m right fucking here.
That we both are.
Me.
Esme.
I have time to evade him. To scoop my kid from the glittery ground and wheel away as if we were never here, haunted by the ghost ofwhat iffor the rest of my fucking life.
But I don’t move.
For whatever reason, I can’t, and I’m caught with my pulse pounding in my ears while Esme tries to climb me to get the bread back, digging her toy truck into my chest for purchase. I’m snared like a trespasser in his world, and it shouldn’t feel like that. I shouldn’t be thinking of all the ways I could still avoid him when all I truly want is for him to turn and see me.
He does see you.
And merde, he looks good.
Calm.
Easy.
His strong body rolling with natural grace as he drifts ever closer to where we are. It reminds me of how he moved through the fire scene at the fête—when he didn’t know I was watching. Likenow, and it should feel wrong to track his every step like this, but it doesn’t. I’m coming to realise nothing with Galen ever feels wrong—even the lurch in my stomach as he finally glances up from his phone and sees us.
Esme picks the exact same moment to voice her frustration that I won’t let her pelt songbirds with stale bread.
She screeches and I cringe.
Galen laughs and it’s like sunlight on my shoulders. He closes the distance between us and retrieves the bread bag I’ve had to drop while wrestling an indignant toddler.
I’m still crouched on the ground.
He gets low, joining us like it’s something he does every day. “Now, now, little lady. Don’t beat up your da.”
His melodic Irish brogue is brand new to Esme. She whips around and regards him with the curiosity of a kid who’s spent her whole life around men who look as menacing as my brother.
Unfazed.
Interested.
She puts her gloved hand to my cheek. “Papa.”
Galen nods. “I see that. What’s your name?”
