“Hi there, you guys,” comes a familiar voice, pulling me out of my musings. I glance up to see Kirsten Hill walking into the pool room in a coverup with a book in her hand.
“Hey,” I say, smearing a towel over my head before tossing it into the hamper.
Paige jumps up and down. “We’re going to send my mom flowers and food.”
Kirsten’s eyes flash to me. “Lucky mom,” she says. “Is she…not here?”
I shake my head. “Backed out last minute. Sick,” I add weirdly. I clear my throat. “She felt kind of sick. Headache.”Shut up. Why am I losing my cool here?
My gaze darts to the book in Kirsten’s hand, and suddenly, I’m reading the title out loud. “How tonotraise a snowflake?”
She twists the cover so it’s against her chest. Her cheeks flush red. “Don’t judge. You should know I also read one called How Not to Raise an…” She covers one side of her mouth and whispers, “A-hole. Greg hates that I obsess over parenting so much. I just don’t want to mess up, you know? We love our kids, right? But that doesn’t mean we can do everything for them or give them every little thing their hearts desire. It’s tough terrain.”
I look at her and blink, feeling as if she has somehow crawled into my headspace. “I’m with you on that,” I say. “Probably why our boys get along so well.”
“Right,” Kirsten says. She gives Paige a wave. “Have fun sending your mom stuff.”
“Thanks,” Paige says with a single hop.
I head toward the exit, Paige’s pruned hand in mine, that sinking feeling flooding back in with a vengeance. It’s like a game I used to play with Parker when he was young—I’d hide something, and as he looked for it, I’d tell him whether he was hot—getting closer, or cold—wandering far away from the hidden object. If his favorite army truck was tucked beneath the throw pillow, I’d tell him he was getting warmer as he neared the couch.
This conversation with Kirsten has me feeling like my hand is hovered over the very throw pillow, hiding that evasive morsel. At least, I think it is; there’s only one way to find out.
“Hey,” I holler, spinning in place to see Kirsten. “Where’s Glen? I thought he was coming.”
“Greg,” she says. “Yeah, we were so excited because he was finally going to be able to join us…”
The sensation heightens, spiking into prickly territory. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand like lightning’s about to strike. I’m lifting the pillow. Peeking beneath.
She pulls a half smile that manages to look even sadder than a frown. “But…”
“But?” I prompt.
“Work.” Her gaze locks on mine as that unreachable object slides right into my grip. It’s razor blade sharp and already cutting into me with one, warning nick—‘This is awkward, but apparently our sons think…’
It was the first conversation I had with Jack’s mom. At the time, neither of us thought it could be true.
But as I stand here looking across the pool, I don’t see Jack’s mom anymore. The fear-filled face of denial, the uncomfortable shift in posture, the averting glance toward the pool, toward the puddle-ridden floor, toward anything that won’t make that blade sink any deeper.
I don’t only see her; I see myself.
“Well,” I finally manage as Paige pulls my hand. “Have a nice dip in the pool.”
She skims her gaze past me to land on Paige and gulps. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER7
Kirsten
This is not a good idea. In fact, it’s a very, very terrible idea. If I have one ounce of common sense, I will notknock onthatdoor atthishour.
I lift my arm, stare at the hair ribbon peeking from my fist, and give the door three small taps. So small that probably no one will hear them. That’s fine. If no one hears, then no one will open, and if no one opens, I can go back to my room and get some—
It opens. Beau is standing there in the wedge of light from the hallway, a very dark hotel room at his back. He squints at me.
My heart feels like it’s about to implode. “Hi.”
Beau smears a hand over his scruff-covered jaw and rumples his hair which is, for the record, not in the usual man bun; it’s hanging at his shoulders in thick, dark, waves, making him look like some sort of sea god. If Trish has this guy, who is obviously her exact type, she should leave my goatee-wearing, sweater-vest-loving, geeky-in-the-most-adorable-way husband alone. He’s mine.
