I wave my hand at him before he can finish that dumb sentence.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it. Now, move your car. And try not to hit me. Judging by that dent, you don’t have the best driving record.”
He doesn’t respond other than to roll his eyes and sigh before slipping back into his car and zipping away. Once in my van, I set my portfolio and enrollment papers on the passenger seat, then leaf through the few pages of the divorce petition. I scan the legalese, chuckling when I get to the part that reads like Brandon’s attempt to avoid paying me child support. Then I get to the part where he asks for primary custody of our boys, and my chuckles are replaced by a sudden gasp and sob.
“You have to be kidding me?” I read through the few lines again, hoping they read differently this time, but the meaning is the same. He doesn’t even know how the boys like their grilledcheese sandwiches, and he wants to be their primary parent. What a joke.
I toss the papers into the passenger seat and fire up my van, pulling away too quickly and rolling over the curb with my right-side front tire. The harsh speedbump jostles me, and I smack my head against the driver’s side window.
“Dammit!” I prop an elbow on the door and rub my head as I slowly roll my way toward the four-way stop.
My phone rings through my car speakers, so I glance at the name on the small screen in the center of my dashboard. It’s my sister, Renleigh. Normally, I would leap at the chance to unload my very heavy feelings onto her. But for once in my life, I feel ashamed. A part of me knows this feeling isn’t warranted or deserved, but it’s there. I feel like a failure.
I have one job—to take care of my boys and make sure their lives are better than mine was growing up. My mom may have been gone a lot, but my parents never legally divorced. Renleigh would argue that they probably should have. But she doesn’t know what this feels like—the weight a few pieces of paper can carry. The cut they leave in the center of my chest.
How am I going to navigate fighting for my boys when they think their dad is the coolest man in the world? I always thought I’d protect that. Even now, when the temptation to show them who their dad really is fills my soul with rage, I know that’s not what’s best for them. They’re young. He’s their dad. And when heisaround them, he’s pretty fun. But there’s a whole lot more to parenting than buying the boys video games and feeding them junk food. In fact, those things don’t even make the list.
Rather than face my reality head-on while my sister compares my situation to our parents’ strange relationship, I press the ignore button and send my sister right to voicemail. And then I drive directly to Brooks’s apartment building.
He’s not due at the stadium for a few hours, and I planned on running some errands before showing up to take over watching Holly. But I can’t handle the monotony of shopping for a new lip gloss and picking up premade salads at the grocery store right now. And Idefinitelydon’t want to walk into my parents’ house where my boys no longer are.
I’m parked outside Brooks’s building in minutes, and barely remember taking the stairs that lead to his door. I’m knocking softly within seconds, and the flood of tears rips through my chest and pours down my cheeks about a half second before the shirtless, adorable ballplayer opens the door. I do what any respectable nanny would—I slam my body into his and smoosh my wet cheeks against his pecs as my fingers scrape against the bare skin on his back.
“Uh . . .” His arms slowly fold around me, and the door thuds closed behind me.
“Don’t talk. Just stand there and hold me. Just for a minute.” I suck in air to steady my breathing, but it’s a struggle. Getting a full breath feels impossible, and my vision is blurry.
I must look like a crazy wreck. My God.
Brooks’s arms shift, his embrace growing tighter, and his chin rests on the top of my head. The tight hold would normally make me feel claustrophobic, but right now, it seems to be regulating my pulse. The slow drag of his fingertips down my spine matches the long breath that leaves my nostrils and lips, and my lungs deflate.
I let myself close my eyes and breathe in again, focusing on the little things—the way Brooks smells, the smoothness of his skin, the way his chest lines up perfectly with my cheekbone, giving me the ideal resting place. After a few deep breaths, I loosen my hold and move back a few inches so I can lift my gaze and read his eyes. I expect an amused expression; perplexed at the very least. But all I see in his eyes is a soft tenderness,and as he moves his right palm to the side of my face, literally everything else in the world stops except for the stroke of his thumb along my cheek.
When my gaze locks on his, my chest grows hot. Not with anger, but with something else. And the vibration tormenting my lips is making them numb. I’ve been married for a few years, but I remember this feeling—the anticipation that comes on the verge of a kiss. I should stop myself from biting my lower lip, but I’m compelled, and the tiny action draws Brooks’s eyes to it immediately.
My lips part, and my brain is screaming for me to speak, to utter the words, “We shouldn’t.” But instead, I close my eyes and Brooks runs his thumb along my cheek one more time before sliding his fingers deeper into my hair. My chin lifts. My mouth opens. And I am drowning in his kiss.
My hands climb his arms, wrapping around his wrists, not to pull him away but to hold him still. He cradles my face as his mouth opens, and his strong lips caress mine. His tongue moves along my lower lip as he sucks it between his, and the gasp leaves my body before it’s audible. It’s a tiny whimper, and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter at the sound. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’m doing something I shouldn’t, but so is he. We’re both adults, and as long as the line is drawn here, we’ll be all right. It’s a moment. I was upset. And he was kind. I really needed a kiss like this to remind me what passion feels like. It’s been so long.
The sharp notes of Holly’s cry hit the air like a hammer to a pane of glass, and just like that, the perfect distraction fizzles into regret and panic. My palms rush to my own face as Brooks covers his mouth with his forearm, dragging it across his bottom lip as if he’s trying to erase poison left behind. His eyes are burning, his stare pointed and sharp. He shakes his head, but the movement is frantic, tiny.
“Lindsey, I shouldn’t have done?—”
“No, it was both of us. I?—”
I shake my head and a laugh vibrates from me as I take a step back and stare at the floor.
“My ex had me served today. Right outside the college.” I wince, hating that these two moments are now married in my memory. I need this job. More now than ever. What was I thinking?
“Fuck, Lindsey. I’m so sorry. That’s really shitty.”
Holly’s cry grows louder, and we glance in the direction of his bedroom. Only one of us should go in there.
“One second,” he says, holding up his palm before rushing into his bedroom to scoop his daughter up from a nap. I linger in the middle of his living room, picking at the edges of my fingernails and replaying the last hour of my life.
“She’s probably hungry. She’s dry,” he says, holding her to his bare chest as he moves toward me. I open my arms and take over holding her while he zips into the kitchen to fix her a bottle of formula.
“I can do that while I hold her. If you have to get ready, I mean.”If you want to go put on a damn shirt, you Greek god of biceps, shoulders and abs.
