“I hate not being there,” he says quietly while Sera runs off to grab her Walker Stallion mid-call.
“Just a few more weeks,” I remind him.
“Four weeks is a long time in toddler years. Right? She’s already so advanced for her age. She’s saying new words every day,” he adds quietly. “What if I miss something big?”
I smile softly. “She won’t forget you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
I know what he means. He’s worried about missing more moments. The tiny things, the new words, new habits. Even more so because he’s already trying to make up for two years. Now he feels like time is stealing from him again.
“You’re doing what you’re contractually obligated to do.” I smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, yeah, boss.”
We sit there for a minute, smiling stupidly at each other. Not saying anything. Just looking. Like we’re both memorizing this version of the other through a screen.
“And you’re doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, automatically.
But the truth is, I feel unsettled with him gone. I leave the hallway light on longer than I need to. I triple-check the stove. And I sleep on his side of the bed because it still smells like him.
It happens on a Tuesday.
I’m going over sponsorship contracts in my office when there’s a knock at the door. But most everyone is gone at camp, minus me, my dad, and a few other administrative staff. And I’m definitely not expecting someone.
When I open it, Aaron is standing there with his hands in his pockets.
My stomach drops instantly.
He looks tired and a little less … polished than usual. The expensive haircut has grown out slightly. His jaw is shadowed. There’s a tightness in his face that wasn’t there before.
And he looks angry.
Not explosive.
Contained.
Which is worse.
“Hi,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I hold the door, blocking his entry.
“Can we talk?”
I hesitate because every instinct tells me to shut the door. But I don’t.
“I called you and texted you for weeks without a response or even an acknowledgment.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. My hand tightens on the edge of the door, knuckles pale.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. Rehearsed. Like he practiced the cadence in the car.
“You get five minutes,” I say stiffly.
I hold the door, and he steps inside like he belongs here. As if he isn’t responsible for detonating my life two years ago, and as if he hasn’t been lying to me since. As if he isn’t responsible for my daughter being without her dad. As if he isn’t responsible for taking my chance at something real with Liam, even if we’re making our way back to something real now.
I shut the door, then move behind my desk, creating space between us.
